Alabama  Sketches 


Alabama  Sketches 


BY 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

Author  of  "Cap  and  Bells," 
"The  Golf  Girl,"  etc. 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1902 


Copyright 
C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1902 


Published 
February,  1902 


TO  MY  SISTER 
MRS.  LUCY  PECK  MARTIN 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/alabamasketchesOOpeck 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Trouble  at  St.  James's  .  .  9 
Sister  Taylor's  Registered  Letter  .  47 
The  Dragon  Candlestick  69 

Pap's  Mules  91 

The  Old  Piano  127 

Mrs.  McMurtrie's  Rooster  .  .  .  143 
The  Maid  of  Jasmindale  .  .  .171 
The  Political  Split  in  Oakville  .  195 
Under  the  White  Rose-Tree  .  .219 
What  Became  of  Mary  Ellen  .  .241 
Far  from  the  Front    ....  285 


THE  TROUBLE  AT  ST.  JAMES'S 


THE  TROUBLE  AT  ST.  JAMES'S 


DAN  GROBY,  the  negro  sexton,  knew 
more  of  the  unquiet  pastorate  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Crofton  than  any  one  at  Oakville. 
Vibrating  in  his  daily  duties  between  the 
church  and  the  rectory,  he  lived  in  the  thick 
of  the  fight.  It  was  on  the  forenoon  of  the 
day  before  Easter  that  Dan,  leaning  on  his 
broom  in  front  of  the  church  door,  narrated  to 
me  the  events  which  had  occurred  during  my 
long  absence. 

"Hit  do  look  peaceful,  don't  it,  sail?"  said 
Dan,  gazing  up  at  the  little  Gothic  structure 
with  moss-grown  roof  shaded  by  great  water- 
oaks,  in  whose  ivy-draped  boughs  mocking- 
birds builded  and  sang  perennially. 

"Dat  vine  dar's  growed  a  heap  since  you 
went  away."  The  negro  pointed  to  a  trum- 
pet-vine which,  planted  by  no  hand,  but  born 
of  the  warm  Southern  soil,  had  climbed  upon 
the  church  tower,  higher  and  higher,  till  its 
green  tendrils  festooned  the  belfry;  and  in 
midsummer  the  lithe,  scarlet-throated  bios- 
9 


io  aiafiama  £ttrtcf)e8 


soms  peeped  in  at  the  old  bell,  and  thrilled 
with  delight  at  its  mellow  clang. 

"The  old  church  is  prettier  than  ever,  Dan," 
said  I.  "Pretty  and  peaceful  are  just  the 
words  for  it." 

"Yes,  sah;  hit  certainly  do  look  peaceful, 
but  hit  don't  always  live  up  to  hits  looks.  De 
bishop  tole  de  senior  warden  dat  St.  James's 
Church,  Oakville,  gived  him  more  trouble  o' 
mind  than  any  other  church  in  de  diocese. 
Says  he,  'Mr.  Dow,  when  I'm  at  home  in 
Mobile  I  take  this  parish  to  bed  with  me  every 
night. '  I  hyern  de  bishop  say  dem  very  words 
standin'  in  de  vestry-room  door.  Dat  was  two 
years  ago,  an'  we  had  a  tumble  time  here  agin 
last  Easter." 

Here  Dan  intimated  that  I  would  best  take 
a  seat,  by  dusting  a  place  on  the  doorstep 
with  his  old  hat. 

"Now  dat's  some'h'n  lak.  Now  I  knows 
you's  comf'table  I  kin  take  my  time  an'  begin 
at  de  beginnin',  wid  de  comin'  o'  Mr.  Crofton. 

"When  Mr.  Crofton  fust  come,  some  o'  de 
vestry  'llowed  dat  kaze  he  was  young  an'  a 
Englishman,  an'  kind  o'  strange-lak,  dey  was 
gwine  twis'  him  round  their  fingers,  lak  dey 
done  de  rest  o'  de  preachers  what's  been  at 
St.  James's  Church.    But  dis  nigger  knowed 


Cfje  Croufile  at  £t  Bamt&z  it 


better.  Soon  as  he  sot  eyes  on  Mr.  Crofton, 
an*  seen  dat  squar  chin  o'  hisn,  an'  tuck  in 
dem  keen  blue  eyes,  an*  sized  him  up,  he  said 
to  hisse'f,  'Dis  man  ain't  twissable;  he  ain't 
lak  none  o'  de  ministers  afore  him;  he  ain't 
a-gwine  round  de  woods  a-pullin'  up  weeds 
an'  bottleizin'  lak  Mr.  Netherby;  an'  he  ain't 
gwine  have  'spepsia  lak  Mr.  Hodge;  nor  he 
ain't  gwine  take  to  fowels,  an'  hatch  aigs  in  a 
hot  box  agin  de  Lord's  will,  lak  Mr.  Single- 
ton. No!  dis  man  won't  give  hisse'f  to  none 
o'  dem  vocations;  he  gwine  'vote  his  time  to 
his  perfession. '  " 

"You  thought  that  the  new  shepherd  would 
rule  the  flock,  and  make  his  sheep  turn  their 
toes  out,  did  you,  Dan?" 

"Yes,  sah,  an'  he  done  it,"  said  the  old 
sexton,  with  a  burst  of  explosive  negro  laugh- 
ter. "Soon  as  he  tole  'em  all  howd'ye,  he 
begun  on  de  choir.  Ain't  none  o'  de  preach- 
ers afore  him  at  St.  James's  Church  had  de 
courage  to  run  agin  de  choir.  You  know, 
sah,  dat  choirs  is  always  mighty  bumptious. 
De  cullurd  people's  got  a  sayin',  dat  when  de 
Devil  comes  to  church  he  sits  in  de  choir. 

"De  very  fust  Sunday  after  de  minister 
come,  de  spranner,  she  never  wait  for  him  to 
send  de  hymes,  but  she  pick  out  de  ones  she 


i2  aiatmtna  Sfeetcijea 


want  to  sing,  and  sont  'em  to  de  minister;  an* 
I  tuck  'em. 

4  4  4  Who  sent  this  to  me,  sexton?'  says  Mr. 
Crofton.  He  didn't  know  den  dat  my  name 
was  Dan. 

4  4  4  Mrs.  Phillips,  de  spranner,'  an'  I  started 
for  de  door. 

4  4  4  Stop,  sexton,'  says  he,  an'  when  I  turned 
about,  bless  de  Lord,  if  he  hadn't  torn  up  Mrs. 
Phillips's  note! 

4  4  4  Here  are  the  hymns  for  the  choir,' 
handin'  me  another  piece  of  paper  from  his 
desk.    4 Take  them  to  the  organist.' 

44Next  Tuesday  at  de  choir  meetin',  in  come 
de  minister,  smilin'  lak  he  belonged  dar,  an' 
give  'em  a  talk.  I  was  washin'  de  winders 
an'  hyerd  ever'  word.  He  tole  'em  he  liked 
their  voices  very  much,  but  dar  was  some  little 
changes  he  wanted  'em  to  make  dat  would  add 
greatly  to  de  beauty  of  de  service.  'Twas 
de  duty  of  de  choir  to  set  a  good  example  to 
de  rest  of  de  congregation  by  bein'  punctual 
an'  orderly,  an'  nex'  Sunday  he  wanted  'em 
all  to  'semble  'fore  service  and  walk  in  de 
church  'fore  him.  De  minister  was  very 
pleasant  mannered  enjoren  de  whole  talk,  but 
he  talked  lak— lak— " 

"Like  one  having  authority?" 


W$z  Croulile  at  St  games'*  13 


44 Yes,  sah,  dat's  hit;  an'  when  he  was 
through,  though  dey  never  said  nothing  I 
seed  dat  one  of  de  choir  was  jest  a-bilin\,, 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Phillips?" 

44 Yes,  sah;  she  who's  been  rulin'  de  roost 
so  long,  tarifyin'  de  organist,  an*  makin'  all 
de  others  stan'  about.  Well,  sah,  when  I 
seed  Mrs.  Phillips's  eyes  a-snappin'  an'  her 
body  a-swellin',  I  says  to  myse'f,  4Lordy, 
man!  you  sholy  is  a  brave  man!' 

44Enjoren  de  rest  o'  de  week  de  choir  had  a 
mighty  miration  'mong  demse'ves,  but  nex' 
Sunday  dey  all  come  to  time  but  Mrs.  Phillips. 
Jes'  after  de  last  bell,  Mr.  Crofton  he  pertend 
he  ain't  missed  Mrs.  Phillips. 

4  4  4  Are  you  all  here?'  he  say. 

44 Den  de  'tralto,  she  say,  4 All  but  Mrs. 
Phillips.  Hadn't  we  better  wait  a  minute? 
Mrs.  Phillips  said  she  wouldn't  come,  but  per- 
haps she'll  change  her  mind.' 

4 4 Den  Mr.  Crofton,  he  say,  4 No;  the  service 
waits  for  nobody.  The  second  soprano  will 
sing  Mrs.  Phillips's  solos.'  An'  in  dey  all 
marched.  Now,  sah,  I  knowed  Mrs.  Phillips, 
an'  when  I  seed  dis,  says  I  to  myse'f,  4 Bless 
Gawd,  some'h'n  gwine  happen.'  99 

Here  Dan  paused  and  took  a  chew  of  to- 
bacco, which  he  cut  from  the  plug  with  a  vener- 


1 4  aiafcama  i&ftetcfjes 


able  knife.  He  went  through  the  operation 
very  leisurely  to  give  my  fancy  time  to  picture 
the  probable  course  of  the  indignant  Mrs. 
Phillips. 

"Well,  sah,  when  de  service  begin  I  kep'  my 
neck  on  de  stretch  from  behind  de  organ. 

44  Mr.  Crofton,  he  say,  1  Dearly  beloved 
brethren,  the  Scripture  moveth  us  in  Sunday 
places.'  Mrs.  Phillips  ain't  come.  Den  de 
choir,  dey  sung,  *0  come  let  us  sing  unto  de 
Lord!'  An'  Mrs.  Phillips  ain't  come  yet. 
Den  thinks  I  to  myse'f,  if  Mrs.  Phillips  is 
comin',  she  gwine  be  here  before  de  Te  Deum, 
for  she  won't  let  nobody  sing  dem  solos  but 
herse'f. 

"Sho  'nough,  jes'  'fore  de  Te  Deum,  de  big 
door  open,  an'  in  walked  Mrs.  Phillips,  dressed 
in  her  finest  clo'es  an'  her  best  bonnet,  an' 
she  sailed  up  de  aisle  lak  a  steamboat  comin' 
up  de  river.  When  she  got  half-way  up  de 
church,  wid  her  eyes  sot  on  de  organ,  an' 
makin'  for  de  choir,  Mr.  Crofton  cotch  on  to 
her  motions,  an'  his  eyes  flashed  lak  fox  fire. 
But  Mrs.  Phillips  kep'  a-sailin'  lak  she  gwine 
to  dat  choir  spite  o'  de  whole  worl'.  How- 
somever,  she  never  got  dar.  No,  bless  Gawd! 
When  she  lined  de  last  pew,  dar  stood  Mr. 
Crofton  on  de  top  step  and  dey  faced  one 


W$z  Ctoufile  at  Sbt  game's  15 


'nother.  'Twarn't  for  long,  but  you  could 
'a'  hyerd  a  pin  drap  all  over  de  church.  De 
minister  never  said  no  word.  He  jes'  looked 
her  in  de  eye,  an*  p'inted  to  a  empty  seat  on 
de  aisle,  an'  Mrs.  Phillips  wilted.  She  took 
dat  seat,  an*  there  ain't  been  no  more  trouble 
wid  de  choir. 

"Den  Mr.  Crofton  regerlated  de  Sunday 
school,  an*  de  Daughters  o'  de  King,  an'  de 
Brothers  o'  St.  Andrew,  an*  de  Woman's  Aux- 
illerary.  After  dat  he  wrastled  wid  de  Low 
Church  elemun',  an'  he  an'  Mr.  Welham,  de 
junior  warden,  had  a  scrap  what  made  de 
sparks  fly;  an'  dis  was  de  way  hit  come  to 
pass.  Mr.  Welham  was  de  head  o'  de  Low 
Church  party  in  de  congregation,  dat  wants 
de  church  as  plain  as  a  country  school-house; 
an'  Mr.  Crofton  is  High  Church,  an'  a  mighty 
han'  for  trimmin's.  Dat  man,  sah,  has  a 
diffunt  colored  ribbin  roun'  his  neck  ever' 
feast  day  in  de  year.  Mr.  Welham  he  watch 
dem  ribbins  a-comin'  an'  a-comin',  an'  he  say 
he  don't  b'lieve  in  no  such  flummery.  If  he 
had  his  way,  de  minister  wouldn't  wear  no 
surplus  at  all.  But  de  ribbins  kep'  a-comin', 
an'  Mr.  Welham  kep'  a-gittin'  madder.  Den 
dar  was  de  flowers.  Some  days  dar'd  be 
white  flowers  on  de  altar,  an'  some  days  dar'd 


1 6  Alabama  &kttcfit& 


be  red,  an*  Mr.  Welham  say  if  he  had  his  way 
dar  wouldn't  be  no  altar  at  all,  but  jes'  a 
plain  table.  An'  so  hit  went  on  raisin'  a 
powerful  stir  in  de  congregation,  some  sidin' 
wid  de  minister,  an'  some  wid  Mr.  Welham, 
till  fust  thing  you  know,  dar  was  lighted 
candles  on  de  altar,  lighted  in  de  broad  day- 
light, bless  Gawd!  Now,  dat  was  de  last 
straw  for  Mr.  Welham.  He  jes'  couldn't 
stand  dat.  One  day  after  service  I  come  in 
de  church  to  sweep,  an'  Mr.  Welham  was 
haulin'  de  minister  over  de  coals  for  de  shines 
he  was  cuttin'  in  de  chancel.  De  minister,  he 
never  say  nothin'.  He  listen  an'  listen  till 
Mr.  Welham  was  clean  through  an'  all  out  o' 
breaf.  Den  Mr.  Crofton  straightened  hisse'f 
an'  answer: 

44  'Mr.  Welham,  I  wish  you  to  understand 
that  I  am  not  responsible  to  you  for  anything 
I  do.  If  you  have  any  charges  to  make 
against  me,  prefer  them  to  the  bishop.' 

4 4 Den  he  walk  into  de  vestry-room." 

4 4 Which  party,  Dan,  did  you  hold  with?" 

44Well,  sah,  I  didn't  'xactly  know  de 
rights  of  it,"  hesitated  Dan,  scratching  his 
head. 

4 4 But  you  sided  with  the  parson,"  I  laughed. 
44 You  went  for  High  Church." 


Croufcie  at  St  gfameg's 


17 


"De  parson  was  my  captain  in  de  army  of 
de  Lord,  an'  I  never  was  no  wobbler,  sah. 
As  for  High  Church — de  higher  you  gits,  de 
nigher  you  is  to  heaven.  All  de  beautiful 
things  tries  to  rise.  Look  at  de  trees.  Dey 
grows  upperds.  An*  de  birds  builds  their  nests 
in  de  trees;  an'  de  flowers  holes  up  their  heads 
as  high  as  dey  kin;  an*  even  de  pore  little 
vines  what  can't  stand  alone,  dey  reaches  out 
their  weeny-teeny  han's  for  some'h'n  to  he'p 
'em  up.  See  dat  vine  dar  on  de  tower!  De 
higher  hit  climbs  de  prettier  hit  grows;  an* 
when  summer-time  comes,  de  brightest  blooms 
is  always  at  de  top,  swingin'  an'  laughin'  round 
de  ole  church  bell. 

"Yes,  sah,  I  th'owed  in  my  lot  wid  de  min- 
ister, an'  lay  low,  lak  Brer  Rabbit." 

"Did  Mr.  Welham  write  to  the  bishop?" 

"If  he  did,  nothin'  ever  come  of  it,  an'  de 
Low  Church  folks  give  up  de  fight.  Dey  had 
to,  for  Mr.  Crofton  carried  de  town,  an'  filled 
de  church  plum  full  ever'  Sunday.  He 
drawed  de  young  well  as  de  ole,  for  he  could 
ride  de  bicycle  an'  box,  as  well  as  pray  an' 
preach.  He'd  put  on  de  gloves  an'  have  a 
round  wid  a  young  man,  den  he'd  go  smoke 
a  pipe  wid  a  ole  one.  'Twarn't  only  de 
church  people  what  filled  de  church :  de  other 


18  aiafiama  Sfeetcfjes 


denominationers  tuck  to  comin'  too,  for  there 
never  had  been  no  man  at  Oakville  what 
could  preach  lak  Mr.  Crofton.  Judge  Adams 
an*  Ginul  Tompkins  an*  all  de  lawyers  got  to 
drappin'  in  for  de  night  sermon. 

4  4  One  Sunday  night,  says  de  Ginul  to  me 
comin*  out  de  church:  4 Dan,  your  preacher's 
too  big  a  man  for  Oakville.  You've  got  a  five- 
thousand-dollar  man  for  twelve  hundred  dol- 
lars, and  you  won't  keep  him  long.  He'll  be 
a  bishop  some  day.' 

4  4  After  de  scrap  wid  Mr.  Welham  de  parish 
was  peaceful  so  long  dis  nigger  got  to  thinkin' 
de  wust  was  over;  but  jes'  'fore  Lent  de 
clouds  begin  to  gather  for  another  storm. 
'Twas  Mr.  Crofton's  hardest  fight,  an'  'tain't 
gwine  be  easy  for  me  to  give  you  de  straights 
o'  dat  row. " 

As  Dan  paused  to  pull  the  threads  of  the 
story  together  before  weaving  the  final  weft, 
a  small  stream  of  water,  which  seemed  to  have 
its  source  somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  church, 
began  to  flow  along  by  the  sidewalk.  Each 
second  it  grew,  glistening  in  the  dappled  light 
that  sifted  through  the  water-oaks,  and  dan- 
cing over  their  gnarled  and  projecting  roots 
with  a  merry  tinkling  laughter;  heard  with 
the  solemn  roll  of  the  organ  within,  it  sug- 


Cf)e  Cnmfile  at  J&t.  fame's  19 


gested  to  my  fancy  a  band  of  little  children 
playing  truant  from  their  prayers. 

4 4 See  dar,  sah!"  said  Dan,  suddenly  point- 
ing to  the  streamlet,  as  if  it  had  given  him  a 
happy  thought.  44De  big  row  growed  right 
out  o'  dat  water.  You  never  hyern  o'  fire 
comin'  out  o'  water,  did  you?  Dat  stream 
runs  from  de  organ  motor,  an*  de  organ  motor 
hatched  out  de  biggest  trouble  de  minister 
ever  had  to  wrastle  wid.  Hit  lasted  forty 
days  an'  forty  nights,  an'  hit  didn't  end  till 
de  day  after  Easter.  If  I  live  till  I  die,  sah, 
I  never  kin  forgit  dat  Lent.  But  de  Lawd 
brought  he'p  to  de  minister  in  a  strange  way. 
You  know  de  ole  hyme,  sah: 

" '  Gawd  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonder  to  perform; 
He  plants  His  foot  upon  de  deep 
An'  rides  upon  de  storm.' 

44 Whenever  I  looks  back  upon  dat  Lent,  I 
always  'members  dat  hyme. 

4  4  Now  hit  come  to  pass  dat  when  de  vestry 
tuck  note  how  Mr.  Crofton  was  a-buildin'  up 
de  church,  dey  cotch  de  fever,  too.  One  of 
'em  got  up  an'  made  a  high-falootin'  speech 
in  de  vestry  meetin. '  I  was  sittin'  outside  on 
de  doorstep  an'  hyern  it  all.  Hit  was  all 
about  progress  bein'  de  order  of  de  day,  an 


2o  aiafiama  Stutcfjes 


hit  behoovin'  de  vestry  to  do  their  part,  as 
public-sperrited  citizens  as  well  as  church 
members,  to  assist  their  beloved  rector  in  his 
noble  work. 

44  4  Hi  yi!'  I  says  to  myse'f ;  Mat  soun's  lak 
de  speeches  at  de  Fo'th  o'  July  barbecue.  I 
wonder  what's  comin' !'  an*  I  listen  agin. 
Well,  sah,  hit  was  what  de  newspapers  call  a 
eloquent  effut,  dat  speech,  an*  hit  ended  by 
movin'  dat  de  vestry  put  a  water-motor  in  de 
church  to  run  de  organ,  an'  de  motion  was 
seconded  an'  carried.  Mr.  Crofton  was  mighty 
pleased  at  what  de  vestry  had  done,  an*  he 
made  a  little  talk  back  to  'em,  thankin'  'em 
for  their  support  an'  kind  feelin',  and  when  de 
meetin'  was  over  his  face  was  jes'  a-beamin' 
wid  happiness. 

4  4  4  Dan,'  says  he,  4the  vestry  are  going 
to  put  a  water-motor  in  the  church,  and 
you  won't  have  to  blow  the  bellows  any 
more. ' 

44I  never  said  nothin'.  'Twarn't  my  place 
to  crittercise  de  doin's  o'  de  vestry,  nor  I 
didn't  have  de  heart  to  spile  de  minister's 
pleasure  by  tellin'  him  dat  de  vestryman  what 
made  dat  fine  speech  had  a  goose  to  cook  for 
hisse'f.  I  'spicioned,  right  den  an'  dar,  dat 
man  owned  stock  in  de  water  company. 


Cfje  Croufcle  at  g>t.  James's  21 


"Nex'  day  a  committee  went  to  make 
'rangement  'bout  de  water.  Now  hit  hap- 
pened dat  de  superintendent  of  de  water- 
works, Mr.  McKennan,  was  gone  off  on  a 
long  business  trip,  an'  de  care  o'  de  works 
was  lef  wid  de  foreman,  an  Irishman  named 
Higgins,  an'  Higgins,  he  say  he  let  'em  have 
water  for  so  much  a  quarter. 

6 'Well,  sah,  de  motor  was  put  in  de  church 
in  Janiwary,  an'  hit  hadn't  been  dar  three 
weeks  'fore  I  seed  dat  trouble  was  breedin'; 
an'  hit  all  growed  out  o'  de  fact  dat  de  con- 
tract warn't  drawed  up  on  paper.  Dat's  de 
best  way — to  write  down  what  bofe  sides  is 
'greein'  to.  Hit's  most  trouble  at  de  start, 
but  hit  saves  trouble  in  de  end.  When  you 
puts  your  money  down,  an'  de  goods  is  deliv- 
ered, or  in  de  case  of  a  horse  trade,  dat's 
another  thing.  You  pays  for  your  jug  o'  mer- 
lasses  or  swaps  horses  an'  rides  off.  If  dem 
merlasses  is  sour,  or  de  horse  goes  lame,  you 
can't  blame  nobody  but  yerse'f,  for  you  might 
ha'  'xamined  de  horse  or  smelt  de  merlasses. 
But  in  de  case  of  de  vestry  an'  Higgins  hit 
was  diffunt.  Pretty  soon  Higgins  raised  a 
talk  dat  de  church  was  usin'  more  water  than 
she  paid  for.  He  say  he  understood  when 
de  'rangement  was  made  dat  dar'd  be  two 


22  aiafiama  Stutdjea 


services  on  Sunday  an'  one  in  de  week,  an'  one 
choir  practice,  lak  dey  had  in  de  Presbyterian 
church,  wid  de  funerals  th'owed  in  free;  an* 
lo  an'  behole,  de  'Piscopals  had  three  services 
on  Sunday  an'  three  in  de  week,  not  countin' 
de  Saints'  days.  An  Higgins,  he  say  he  never 
know  when  dem  Saints'  days  is  comin';  an' 
den  he  swear  a  blue  streak.  Dis  was  'fore 
Lent.  When  Lent  come,  I  thought  Higgins 
gwine  have  apoplexy  ever'  time  he  pass  de 
church,  for  dar  was  nine  services  a  week,  not 
takin'  account  o'  de  choir  practices. 

"One  day  Higgins  say  to  me:  'Dan,  when 
is  this  revival  goin'  to  stop?'  an'  he  put  a 
strong  word  jes'  'fore  'revival.' 

"  'Dis  ain't  no  revival,  boss,'  I  say.  'De 
church  is  keepin'  de  holy  season  of  Lent.' 

"  'Holy  season  of  Lent!'  snorted  Higgins; 
'I  suppose  that  means  that  the  church  intends 
to  borrow  water  from  the  company  without 
paying  for  it.  See  here,  Dan,  you  tell  your 
Englishman  he  must  stop  this  Lent  business, 
or  pay  double!'  an'  Higgins  put  in  dat  strong 
word  agin  'fore  'Englishman.' 

"  'Mr.  Higgins,'  I  say,  mighty  polite,  for  I 
was  dead  skeered  of  him,  'Mr.  Crofton  can't 
stop  Lent  if  he  wanted  to. ' 

"  'Why  not?'  says  he.    'The  Methodists 


W§z  Croufile  at  &L  garnet  23 


and  Baptists  close  their  protracted  meetin's 
when  they  want  to/ 

"  'Dat's  so,  boss,'  I  say  back  for  I  wanted 
to  'gree  wid  him  all  I  could.  'De  Babtises 
an'  de  Methodises  kin  stop  when  dey  likes, 
kaze  dey  begins  when  dey  chooses,  but  hit 
ain't  so  wid  de  Church.  Dis  Lenten  season  is 
as  regerlar  as  de  heavenly  bodies.  Hit  begins 
on  Ash  Wednesday,  de  day  you  plants  ash 
potaters,  an'  it  lasts  till  de  fust  Sunday  after 
de  full  moon,  on  or  after  de  twenty-fust  of 
March,  which  is  Easter  Sunday.  If  Mr.  Crof- 
ton  was  to  stop  Lent  'fore  Easter  hit  would 
be  jes'  as  scannerlous  as  if  de  Methodis' 
preacher  was  to  dance  de  German.  Hit's 
jes'  so,  an'  so  hit's  got  to  be,  'kaze  hit's  in  de 
Prayer-book,  an'  de  Prayer-book  ain't  no 
political  flatform  what  changes  ever'  election. 
De  Prayer-book  is  older  an'  more  to  be  re- 
spected than  de  Constitution  of  de  United 
States. ' 

"  'Dan,'  says  Higgins,  'you're  a  fool,'  an' 
he  puts  in  dat  same  word  'fore  'fool, '  an'  walks 
off  cussin'. 

"When  I  tole  Mr.  Crofton  about  de  conver- 
sation, he  said  dat  Higgins  was  a  ignorant 
Dissenter. 

"Instid  o'  gwine  to  de  vestry  what  made  de 


24  aiafiama  Sftetcfjes 


'rangement  wid  him,  Higgins  laid  all  de  blame 
on  de  minister;  an'  nex'  day  when  Mr.  Crof- 
ton  was  on  de  way  to  de  post-office,  Higgins 
stopped  him  in  front  o'  Biggs's  bar-room. 
Dat  meetin'  o'  Higgins  an*  de  minister  was  de 
onliest  thing  I  missed  through  de  whole  row. 
I  was  too  far  away,  an*  though  I  hurried  up  as 
soon  as  I  could,  I  never  cotch  nothin'  but  de 
motions.  Higgins  come  out  de  bar-room, 
leavin'  Biggs  an'  his  loafers  to  listen  from  de 
door.  De  meetin*  was  short,  an'  Higgins  did 
most  o'  de  talkin*.  Mr.  Crofton  waited  till 
Higgins  was  through  wid  his  blustering  den 
he  kyarved  him  up  lak  he  done  Mr.  Welham.  I 
thought  Higgins  was  gwine  hit  him,  an* 
I  b'lieve  Mr.  Crofton  thought  so,  too,  for  I 
seed  de  minister's  hands  tighten  at  his  side, 
an'  dar  he  stood  lak  a  rock  till  Higgins  drap 
his  fist;  den  he  went  on  his  way  to  de  post- 
office.  After  Mr.  Crofton  was  out  o'  hearing 
Biggs  an'  his  gang  raised  de  laugh  on  Hig- 
gins. Dey  jes'  whooped  an'  hollered,  an*  I 
got  behind  a  tree  an'  laughed,  too,  till  I  most 
split.  De  men  in  de  bar-room  tole  Higgins 
dat  he  had  to  stan'  treat  for  de  crowd,  an* 
dey  made  him  do  it;  but  when  dey  all  raised 
their  glasses,  Higgins  swore  a  tumble  oath, 
an*  tole  'em  he  was  gwine  git  even  wid  Mr. 


CJje  Croufile  at  Sbt  James's  25 


Crofton  if  he  lost  his  soul  a-doin'  it.  De  men 
axed  Higgins  how  he  gwine  do  hit,  an*  Hig- 
gins,  he  say,  'Jes'  wait*;  an*  he  tuck  on  such 
a  ugly  face,  I  promise  myse'f  I'se  gwine  keep 
my  eyes  stretched. 

4 4 On  de  followin'  Monday  Mr.  Crofton 
'quainted  de  vestry  of  his  meetin'  wid  Higgins, 
an'  read  'em  a  threatenin'  letter  what  de  man 
had  sont  him  through  de  post-office.  For 
hisse'f,  de  minister  say,  he  had  no  fear,  but 
Higgins  seemed  determined  to  raise  trouble, 
an'  might  try  to  interfere  wid  de  music  o'  de 
church,  which  would  cause  considerable  in- 
convenience, 'specially  just  den,  when  de 
choir  was  practisin'  de  music  for  Easter  Sun- 
day. To  be  certain  o'  de  church's  position  in 
de  question,  Mr.  Crofton  tole  de  vestry  dat  he 
had  made  some  investigations  an'  had  found 
out  dat  de  church  was  payin'  as  much  for  de 
use  o'  de  water-power  as  de  broom-factory, 
or  de  city  fountain,  which  run  day  an'  night, 
an'  de  water  company  had  no  moral  nor  legal 
right  for  complaint.  Such  bein'  de  case,  he 
didn't  think  de  church  should  pay  any  more 
than  she  was  a-payin' ;  an'  he  wished  to  ask 
de  vestry  if  dey  didn't  deem  hit  wise  to  state 
to  Higgins,  through  a  committee,  dat  de 
church  would  not  raise  its  price  for  de  water, 


26  aiafiama  S&etcfies 


an'  dat  he  must  cease  his  scannerlous  talk  o' 
de  church's  swindlin'  de  water  company,  an' 
keep  away  from  hit's  presinks  unless  he  come 
in  de  sperrit  o'  peace. 

4  4  When  de  minister  finish,  de  vestry  sot  dar 
an'  gaze  at  one  'nother,  an*  hem  an'  haw;  for 
de  water  company  had  money  to  put  in  de 
bank,  an'  job  printin'  to  let,  an'  store  goods 
to  buy,  an'  a  power  o'  paternage  to  'stribute 
round  de  town,  an'  Higgins  had  de  manage- 
ment o'  hit  all  while  de  superintendent  was 
away. 

"Den  de  minister  'membered  dat  grand  bar- 
becue speech,  an'  all  de  beautiful  talk  about 
de  sperrit  o'  progress,  an'  'sistin'  their  beloved 
rector.  Whar  was  dat  'thusiasm  now?  Hit 
hadn't  no  more  enjorance  than  de  cotton-wag- 
gin's  dust  blowed  through  de  pines.  Mr. 
Crofton  looked  round  de  room,  an'  I  seed  de 
light  fadin'  out  o'  his  face,  and  hit  was  a 
sight  to  give  you  de  heartache." 

Dan's  face  grew  sad  at  the  recollection,  and 
I  hastened  to  inquire  what  action  the  vestry 
took  in  the  matter. 

"Dey  didn't  take  no  action,  sah,"  replied 
the  old  negro,  returning  to  his  story.  "I 
knowed  dey  wouldn't.  Jes'  as  dey  was  scat- 
term',  de  vestryman  what  owned  stock  in  de 


Ef)t  QtxouWt  at  St.  SJames's  27 


water  company  said  to  Mr.  Welham  dat  he 
thought  de  church  might  pay  a  little  more, 
an*  pacify  Higgins,  for  hit  was  de  best  policy 
for  de  church  to  live  at  peace  wid  de  worl'. 
But  Mr.  Welham  he  say  dat  he  thought  de  best 
policy  was  to  let  Mr.  Crofton  an,  Higgins 
scrap  hit  out.  After  Higgins  foun'  out  dat  de 
vestry  had  gone  back  on  de  minister,  he  tuck 
to  comin'  round  de  church  an'  raisin*  more 
Cain  than  ever.  He  thought  if  he  kep' 
a-kickin',  de  vestry  would  pay  him  any  price 
he  ax  for  de  water;  an'  so  hit  went  on  till 
Passion  Week,  wid  Higgins  sendin'  sassy  mes- 
sages to  de  minister,  an*  hangin'  round  de 
church  lak  a  evil  sperrit. 

"Now  hit  happened  dat  dar  was  one  chune 
what  de  choir  was  practisin'  dat  made  Higgins 
redder  in  de  face  than  all  de  other  music,  an* 
dat  chune  was  de  Hallelujah  Chorus.  Hit 
was  Mr.  Crofton's  plan  to  have  it  sung  on 
Palm  Sunday,  but  de  choir  didn't  learn  hit  in 
time,  so  he  tole  'em  to  sing  it  for  de  offertory 
on  Easter  Day. 

4  4  Did  yer  ever  chance  to  know  dat  chorus, 
sah?  Well,  sah,  hit's  de  glorifyin'est  chune 
ever  I  hyerd.  De  spranners  hallelujahed  high 
up  in  de  trebles,  den  de  basses  roared  hit 
down  low,  an*  de  'traltos  an'  de  tenors  pitched 


28  aiafcama  &kttt$t$ 


hit  back  an'  forth  in  de  middle;  den  dey  all 
sot  in  an*  shouted  hit  together,  an'  see-sawed 
an*  zig-zagged  up  an*  down  de  scales,  while 
de  organist  played  wid  his  all  fours,  an  ever* 
stop  pulled  out  to  de  very  een.  Hit  sholy 
was  a  sight  to  see  Mrs.  Phillips  singin'  dat 
song.  She  patted  her  foot  an'  nodded  her 
head  an*  sung  till  she  got  red  in  de  face;  for 
there  ain't  nobody  gwine  'spose,  what  knows 
Mrs.  Phillips,  dat  she'd  let  anybody  hallelujah 
louder'n  she  did,  an'  she  de  fust  spranner. 
An'  all  de  time  de  choir  was  a-practisin'  dat 
chorus  an'  a-hallelujahin'  inside,  Higgins  was 
outside  de  church  watchin'  dat  water  runnin', 
an'  cussin'.  Hit  seem  lak  he  thought  Mr. 
Crofton  an'  de  choir  was  a-crowin'  over  him; 
an'  to  tell  de  trufe,  hit  did  have  dat  kind  of 
a  soun'. 

"De  minister  hoped  dat  after  Lent  was  over, 
an'  Higgins  seed  de  services  come  less  fre- 
quent, dat  he  would  simmer  down,  an'  de  storm 
would  blow  over.  But,  sah,  I  knowed  Hig- 
gins, an'  kep'  on  de  watchout  for  devilment; 
an'  de  mornin'  o'  Sadday,  de  very  day  'fore 
Easter,  Higgins  played  it  on  de  minister  in  a 
way  nobody  ever  could  a-thought  o'  gyardin' 
aginst.  He  struck  at  Mr.  Crofton  through  de 
organist,  Mr.  Marbry;  an'  till  you  see  Mr. 


W$t  Croufcle  at  &L  games's  29 


Marbry,  sah,  you  can't  noways  'predate  de 
devilment  o'  Higgins.  I  don't  know  whar 
Mr.  Marbry  come  from,  but  when  ole  Miss 
Maria  Prim  throwed  up  de  organ  'kaze  she 
couldn't  keep  up  wid  de  new-fangled  High 
Church  music,  Mr.  Crofton  picked  him  up 
from  somewhar.  But  wharever  he  come 
from,  dat  little  man's  been  through  de  mill  o' 
misfortune,  an'  when  you  look  at  his  little 
white  face  an'  weak  legs  you  can  see  de  shad- 
der  of  hit  still  restin'  on  him.  Sometimes 
when  I  sees  Mr.  Marbry  I  misdoubt  if  he's 
got  any  bones. 

"On  Sadday  mornin',  after  de  service,  Mr. 
Marbry  stayed  on  to  go  over  de  Easter  music 
by  hisse'f  when  nobody  was  dar;  for  de  ladies 
was  comin'  in  de  afternoon  to  dress  de  church 
wid  flowers,  an'  Mr.  Marbry  was  a  nervous 
little  man,  an'  dis  was  his  last  chance.  He 
was  a-playin'  an'  I  was  a-sweepin',  when  I 
hyern  a  heavy  step  come  in  de  door.  I  turned 
to  look,  an'  bless  Gawd,  hit  was  Higgins,  an' 
'twas  de  fust  time  he'd  been  inside  de  church 
since  de  motor  was  put  in.  'Now  what  you 
want  here,  man?'  I  said  to  myse'f,  an'  I 
leaned  on  my  broom  to  watch.  He  marched 
straight  up  de  aisle,  an'  stood  right  behind  de 
organist's  back,  an'  Mr.  Marbry  war  so  tuck 


3°  &lafiama  S&etcfjeis 


up  wid  de  music  he  never  seed  nor  hyerd 
him. 

"  'Hello!'  says  Higgins;  an*  Mr.  Marbry 
nearly  fell  back'ards  over  de  bench. 

"  'Hello!  I  say,'  says  Higgins  ag'in,  wid  a 
devlish  grin  on  his  red  face;  'that's  very  fine 
music  you're  makin'.' 

"Mr.  Marbry  riz  up  shakin'  all  over,  too 
skeered  to  open  his  mouth. 

"  'Ain't  I  good  enough  to  speak  to?'  says 
Higgins,  still  grinnin'  dat  ugly  grin.  'I've 
come  in  here  specially  to  shake  hands  with 
you. ' 

"Den  Mr.  Marbry  put  out  his  little  trem- 
blin'  fingers,  an'  Higgins  tuck  'em  in  his  big, 
rough  han',  an'  de  nex'  second  Mr.  Marbry 
fell  on  his  knees  an'  fotched  a  scream  what 
made  my  hyar  twis'  up.  Mr.  Crofton  runned 
in  from  de  vestry-room  an'  jerked  Higgins 
loose;  but  de  devilment  was  done,  an'  Higgins 
went  out  de  church  jes'  a-chucklin'. 

"Mr.  Marbry's  fingers  was  squez  mighty 
nigh  to  a  jelly.  In  lesser'n  two  minutes  dat 
han'  had  swole  twice  de  size  o'  de  other.  Mr. 
Crofton  done  what  he  could  for  de  pore  little 
man.  He  tuck  him  down  to  de  rectory  an* 
bathed  de  han'  in  cold  water,  an'  hot  water, 
an'  arniky,  but  nothin'  wouldn't  he'p  him,  an' 


Cfje  Croufile  at  St  game's  31 


he  went  home  wid  his  arm  in  a  sling.  Well, 
sah,  things  looked  mighty  blue  'bout  dat 
time,  for  what  was  Easter  Day  widout  music, 
an'  what  was  music  widout  de  organ?  Hit 
would  be  as  bad  as  'possum  widout  sweet 
potaters. 

"I  seed  dat  Mr.  Crofton  was  very  sorrowful, 
an'  I  thought  dat  de  Devil  had  sholy  won  de 
day. 

"  'Dan,'  said  de  minister,  'keep  this  matter 
quiet.    The  Lord  will  provide. ' 

"  'How  He  gwine  do  hit,  sah?'  says  L 
'Ain't  nobody  in  dis  whole  town  kin  play  dat 
music  but  de  other  organists,  an'  dey  all  got 
to  play  in  their  own  churches  to-morrow. ' 

"Mr.  Crofton  didn't  say  no  more,  an'  I 
went  back  to  my  work  at  de  church,  keepin' 
a  close  mouth.  I  always  tried  to  do  jes'  what 
de  minister  told  me,  'kaze  I  done  found  out 
hit  was  de  right  thing  ever'  time.  Dat  after- 
noon, when  de  church  was  all  dressed  wid 
flowers,  an'  I'd  cleaned  out  de  litter,  I  went 
up  street  to  buy  my  Sunday  pervisions.  As  I 
passed  Biggs's  bar-room  I  hyerd  Higgins 
tellin'  de  gang  about  de  hand-shake  he'd  give 
de  organist,  an'  I  leaned  ag'in  de  wall  to  lis- 
ten. Some  o'  de  men  laughed  wid  Higgins  at 
de  way  he  had  sp'iled  de  music  an'  got  even 


32  aiafiama  £ktit%t$ 


wid  de  minister,  but  de  rest  looked  sober,  an1 
one  young  fellow  turned  on  Higgins  an*  tole 
him  'twas  a  cowardly  trick.  All  de  men 
jumped  when  dey  hyerd  dat  word,  for  dey  was 
all  skeered  o'  Higgins;  an*  what  s'prised  'em 
de  more,  de  young  fellow  was  Higgins's  engi- 
neer at  de  water-works.  In  a  minute  de  scrap 
was  on,  an*  when  dey  pulled  him  off  Higgins, 
Higgins  give  de  young  man  his  walkin'  papers, 
in  change  for  a  black  eye  an'  a  bloody  nose. 

"Well,  sah,  I  never  seed  anything  since  I 
was  bcrned  dat  look  half  so  pretty  to  me  as 
Higgins  wid  dat  head  on  him.  After  supper 
dat  night  I  felt  so  good  I  couldn't  keep  hit  to 
myse'f,  an*  I  started  for  de  rectory.  Hit 
'peared  to  me,  though  Mr.  Crofton  was  a 
Christian  an'  a  man  o'  Gawd,  he  wouldn't  be 
noways  human  if  he  didn't  draw  some  comfort 
from  dat  black  eye  an'  broke  nose  o'  Higgins. 
De  minister  held  his  mouf  straight  when  I  tole 
him,  but  he  couldn't  keep  de  twinkle  out  of 
his  eye. 

"When  I  was  through  de  story,  I  says  to 
him,  4  Mr.  Crofton,  has  de  Lord  purvided 
yit?' 

"  'Not  yet,  Dan,  but  He  will,'  said  de  minis- 
ter; an'  de  words  hadn't  more'n  lef  his  lips 
when  de  door-bell  rang.    Dat  bell  rang  so 


Cjje  Croufile  at  £>t  §amt$f$  33 


pat  I  cotch  my  breaf,  an'  de  minister  was 
startled,  too.    I  started  for  de  door. 

44  'Stop,  Dan/  said  de  minister.  'I'll 
answer  the  bell  this  time/ 

4  4  Now  maybe  you  gwine  laugh,  sah,  but 
when  Mr.  Crofton  lef  me  all  alone  in  dat 
room  I  felt  somehow  lak  de  niggers  say  dey 
feels  when  dey's  hoodooed.  Yet  I  knowed  hit 
warn't  no  sinful  spell,  'kaze  I  seed  de  cross 
hangin'  over  de  chimney-place,  an*  smelt  de 
Easter  lilies  on  de  minister's  desk.  Bime-by, 
waitin'  dar  in  de  place,  which  was  so  still  I 
could  listen  at  myse'f  a-breathin',  I  hyerd  de 
front  door  shet,  an'  peekin'  out  de  winder,  I 
seed  Mr.  Crofton  go  out  de  gate  wid  some- 
body. I  couldn't  make  out  who  hit  was,  an' 
wondered  if  some  sick  person  had  sent  for  de 
minister,  or  if  it  mought  be  dat  Higgins,  not 
satisfied  wid  de  harm  he'd  already  done  to 
Mr.  Marbry,  an'  mad  at  de  lickin'  he'd  got  in 
de  scrap  at  Biggs's,  was  layin'  a  trap  for  Mr. 
Crofton  in  de  dark.  When  dis  last  notion 
struck  me,  I  turned  cole  all  over,  an'  snatched 
up  my  hat  to  foller.  Den  I  drapped  hit  ag'in, 
for  dey  had  got  so  far  hit  would  be  lak  s'archin' 
for  a  black  sheep  in  de  dark,  unless  I  knowed 
whar  dey  was  a-gwine,  which  I  didn't  'spicion 
in  de  least.    So  I  done  de  nex'  best  thing, 


34  aiafcama  &ktUt)t$ 


an'  kep'  it  up  till  de  minister  come  back. 
When  Mr.  Crofton  cotch  me  on  my  knees,  I 
jumped  up  kind  o'  shame-lak.  But  I  forgot 
all  de  shame  feelin'  in  de  light  of  de  minister's 
face. 

44  4 Dan,  the  Lord  has  provided!' 

4  4  4  What,s  dat  you  say,  Mr.  Crofton?'  I 
jerked  out.  4 Is — is  He  gwine  sen'  a  angel  to 
play  de  organ  to-morrow?' 

4 4 Hit  soun's  foolish  now,  what  I  said  dat 
night,  but  I  was  so  glad  to  see  de  minister 
safe  an'  soun',  an'  so  worked  up  wid  de 
waitin',  an'  de  prayin',  an'  de  shinin'  o'  de 
cross,  an'  de  sweetness  o'  de  lilies,  I  wouldn't 
'a'  been  s'prised  at  nothin'. 

4 4  Mr.  Crofton  smiled.  4  No,  Dan,  not  an 
angel,  but  the  young  fellow  who  gave  Higgins 
the  black  eye.    He  is  a  German.' 

4  4  4  But,  sah,  kin  he  play  de  Easter  music? 
Does  he  know  de  Hallelujah  Chorus?' 

44  'We  have  been  through  all  the  Easter 
music  at  the  church,  and  he  renders  the  chorus 
with  more  spirit  than  Mr.  Marbry.  It  was  a 
German  who  composed  the  Hallelujah  Chorus. ' 

4  4  4  Well,  sah,'  says  I,  grinnin'  all  over,  to- 
morrow's gwine  be  Easter  an'  Thanksgivin' 
all  rolled  up  together.'  An'  wid  a  happy 
good  night  to  de  minister  I  started  for  home. 


Cfje  HLxouMt  at  £>L  games'*  35 


"As  I  walked  by  de  flower  gyardens  I  seed 
de  white  roses  an'  de  lilies  all  shiny  wid  de 
jew,  leanin'  towards  de  east  to  ketch  de  fust 
glory  of  de  dawn;  an'  de  sweet  smells  what 
can't  be  seen  nor  hyerd  seem  lak  dey  was 
strayin'  through  de  starlight,  an'  shakin'  han's 
for  joy.  But  dar  warn't  nothin'  dat  night 
happier'n  me. 

"If  Mr.  Crofton  hadn't  been  a  Christian  an' 
a  minister,  I  would  'a'  sholy  'spicioned  dat  he 
toted  a  rabbit's  foot,  'kaze  ever'thing  was 
a-turnin'  out  so  fine.  I  felt  so  good  all  over 
dat  if  I'd  been  a  Methodis'  nigger,  lak  I  used 
to  be,  I  raly  b'lieve  I  would  'a'  shouted;  but 
jes'  before  I  got  home  I  felt  my  faith  a-weak- 
enin'.  Hit's  a  pity,  sah,  dat  a  Christian's 
faith  ain't  more  enjoren.  When  I  lifted  de 
latch  I  begin  to  misdoubt  de  trust  I  brung 
from  de  rectory,  an'  I  said  to  myse'f,  'If  de 
Lord  has  purvided,  de  Devil  ain't  dead,  an* 
Higgins  is  still  got  one  eye  open,  an'  dar's 
plenty  of  time  for  him  to  git  in  his  work.' 
An'  layin'  awake  in  de  bed  till  four  o'clock, 
I  worked  hit  out  disway:  If  so  be  Higgins 
was  satisfied  wid  de  devilment  he'd  already 
done,  an'  laid  abed  till  noon,  nussin'  his  head 
an'  thinkin'  dat  when  he  crippled  de  organist 
de  music  was  sp'iled,  all  was  gwine  to  turn  out 


36  aiaftama  Stutcfies 


well  for  de  minister  an'  me;  but  on  de  other 
han',  if  so  be  Higgins  riz  early  an'  see  dat 
Mr.  Crofton  had  got  de  better  o'  him,  an* 
worser  still,  finds  out  dat  de  man  at  de  organ 
was  de  same  fellow  what  give  him  de  black 
eye,  dar'd  be  trouble.  He  could  do  one  more 
thing  widout  comin'  in  reach  o'  de  law;  an'  if 
I  was  foxy  enough  to  drap  onto  hit  in  my  mind, 
I  knowed  hit  wouldn't  'scape  Higgins. 

"I  gits  up  soon,  sah,  ever'  mornin',  but 
nex'  day  I  riz  when  de  east  was  red,  to  go  an' 
open  de  church  an'  git  de  sexton's  treat  what 
comes  ever'  Easter  an'  lasts  me  for  a  year. 
What  is  it?  Well,  now,  I'm  most  a-feared  to 
tell  you,  'kaze  you  might  come  an'  rob  me  o* 
hit  to-morrow  mornin'.  Hit's  de  fust  smell  o' 
de  flowers  in  de  church  on  Easter  Day.  Dat's 
de  sexton's  treat. 

"When  I  opened  de  door  all  quiet-lak  dat 
mornin',  de  church  was  so  sweet  and  peaceful 
seem  lak  I  cotched  de  shine  of  a  angel's  wing 
through  de  lilies  on  de  altar,  but  hit  mought 
'a'  been  de  light  peepin'  in  de  east  winder. 
I  stood  right  still,  an'  de  sweet  lonesomeness 
of  de  place  began  to  bring  back  de  trust  I  had 
at  de  rectory  de  night  before.  But  all  de 
same,  when  de  forenoon  come  an'  de  bell  was 
rung  an'  de  service  was  opened,  I  tuck  my 


Cf)e  QtxouMt  at  S>t  James's  37 


seat  outside  de  church  on  de  little  foot-bridge 
whar  I  could  look  four  ways  for  Higgins. 
About  de  middle  o'  de  service  he  turned  a 
corner  two  blocks  off  an'  come  down  de  street. 
De  minister  was  jes'  gwine  to  read  de  Epistle, 
an'  I  did  hope  hit  would  last  till  Higgins 
passed  de  church.  If  hit  had  'a'  been  Good 
Friday  'twould  'a'  helt  out;  but  de  Easter 
Epistle  is  short,  an'  jes'  as  Higgins  reached 
de  bridge  de  choir  struck  up  wid  de  4  Glory 
Be  to  Thee,'  an'  worst  luck  of  all,  dat  young 
German  pawed  an'  cut  de  pigeon's  wing  on  de 
organ  pedals  lak  he  was  dancin'  at  a  ball. 

"Higgins  stopped  an'  pulled  his  short  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth.  'Who  is  that  at  the  organ, 
Dan?' 

44  He  looked  at  me  sharp-lak  wid  his  good 
eye.  De  other  one  was  jes'  beginnin'  to  peep 
open,  an'  wid  a  black  splotch  roun'  hit,  an' 
his  swell-up  nose,  he  sholy  was  a  sight  to 
skeer  de  crows. 

44I  stood  up  from  de  bridge  respectful-lak, 
an'  a  turrible  temptation  struck  me.  Thinks 
I,  4Maybe  if  I  say  hit's  one  of  de  ladies,  he'll 
go  on  down  town  after  his  drink  widout 
raisin'  trouble.  De  service  is  half  through.' 
Den  I  thinks,  4 No,  I  ain't  gwine  tell  no  lie 
on  Easter  Day.'    Hit  wouldn't  'a'  done  no 


38  aiafcama  Sfeetcfjes 


good,  sah,  'kaze  I  was  shore  Higgins  knowed 
hit  warn't  no  woman's  foot  pawin'  dem  pedals. 

44  'Hit's  a  man,  sah,'  says  I.  All  de  same 
I  wasn't  gwine  tell  Higgins  more'n  I  was 
obleege  to. 

44  'What  man?' 

4  4  4  I  don't  know  his  name,  sah.' 

44Dat  last  word  I  say  was  half  de  trufe.  De 
Dutchman's  name  was  some'h'n  lak  Swizzle- 
hammer  or  Swoxelhimmer,  or  a  mixture  o'  de 
two.  I  never  could  'member  dem  Dutch 
names. 

4  4  4  Do  I  know  him?'  says  Higgins. 

44Den  I  sorter  stammered  an'  said,  4You  kin 
go  in  de  church  an'  see  if  you  know  him,  sah.' 

44I  knowed  dat  Higgins  wouldn't  go  in  de 
church  wid  dat  head  on  him.  But  soon  as  I 
answered  I  seed  dat  I'd  drapped  my  water- 
melon.   Higgins  had  cotch  on. 

4  4  4  You  black  rascal!'  said  he,  grabbin'  me 
by  de  collar  an'  shakin'  me,  4who's  playin' 
that  organ?' 

44De  game  was  up  den,  an'  I  'fessed.  I  tole 
him  hit  was  de  Dutchman,  an'  ever'thing.  I 
had  to,  for  wid  ever'  question  come  a  choke 
an'  a  shake.  When  Higgins  foun'  out  dat  de 
choir  hadn't  sung  de  Hallelujah  Chorus  yet, 
he  drapped  me  an'  felt  in  his  pocket.    He  was 


W$t  Crcufile  at  St.  §amt*f*  39 


lookin'  for  his  wrench  to  turn  off  de  water. 
Dat  was  what  I  was  feared  of.  De  wrench 
wasn't  dar.  He  went  to  the  hydrant,  which 
was  on  de  edge  of  de  sidewalk  jes'  outside  de 
vestry-room,  an'  tried  to  work  hit  wid  his  fin- 
gers. He  couldn't.  He  hammered  wid  a 
brickbat.  Dat  wouldn't  do.  Den  he  riz  wid 
a  swear  an'  started  off  to  git  his  wrench. 

4 4 As  soon  as  Higgins  turned  de  corner,  I 
slipped  in  de  vestry-room  to  tell  de  minister. 
When  Mr.  Crofton  come  in  de  room  to  git  his 
sermon,  while  de  choir  was  singin'  de  last 
hyme,  I  said,  4  Higgins  has  gone  to  git  de 
wrench  to  turn  off  de  water  an'  spile  de  Hal- 
lelujah Chorus!'    An'  I  trimbled  all  over. 

4  4  4  Have  faith,  Dan.  Perhaps  he  won't  find 
it,'  said  de  minister;  but  he  looked  troubled. 

44 A  thought  struck  me.  I  shuffled  from  de 
room,  an'  was  back  in  a  minute. 

4  4  4  What  have  you  done,  Dan?'  asked  de 
minister. 

4  4  4  Dat  water  ain't  gwine  be  turned  off  to- 
day,' I  answered,  dodgin'  de  question. 

4  4  4  Dan,  what  have  you  done?'  said  de 
minister  ag'in. 

44  'Higgins,  he  tuck  me  by  de  th'oat  an' 
choked  me.' 

44  'Daniel  Groby,  what  have  you  done?' 


4°  aiafiama  S>ftetcf)ea 


44De  choir  started  on  de  last  verse  of  de 
hyme,  an*  Mr.  Crofton  stood  wid  his  han'  on 
de  door-knob  lookin'  me  through  an*  through. 

44  'I  ain't  done  much.  I  jes'  drapped  some 
sand  an*  grabbel  in  de  hydrant  so  Higgins 
can't  unscrew  it.    Is  I  done  wrong,  sah?' 

4  4  4  Are  you  sure  Higgins  can't  turn  off  the 
water?'  said  Mr.  Crofton. 

4  4  4  Not  if  he  bust  hisse'f.  De  pipe's  got  to 
come  up  fust.    Is — is  I  done  a  sin?' 

4  4  4  No,  Dan.' 

44De  minister's  eye  twinkled,  an'  he  went 
back  to  preach  de  sermon. 

44When  de  door  closed  behind  him,  I  stayed 
dar  in  de  vestry-room,  but  I  lef  de  outside 
door  on  de  crack  so  I  could  keep  my  eye  on 
dat  hydrant.  In  a  little  while  Higgins  come 
back,  jes'  a-puffin',  wid  de  wrench  in  his  han'. 
He  was  afeard  to  be  too  late,  but  when  he 
hyerd  de  minister's  voice  he  drawed  a  long 
breaf  an'  looked  all  aroun'.  I  reckon  he  was 
lookin'  for  me,  an'  I  sholy  was  glad  to  be  in 
dat  vestry-room.  4  Now  he  gwine  take  a  pull 
on  dat  screw,'  says  I  to  myse'f,  peepin' 
through  de  crack  of  de  door.  But  no.  He 
lit  his  pipe,  an'  sat  down  on  a  root  of  de  oak- 
tree  wid  de  wrench  in  his  han'.  Den  I  cotch 
on  to  de  devilment  of  de  man. 


€f)e  Croufile  at  $>t.  §am&f&  41 


"Well,  sah,  he  sot  dar  smokin'  till  de  ser- 
mon was  over,  an'  den  he  riz  an*  went  to  de 
hydrant,  an'  fittin'  on  de  wrench,  waited  for 
de  chorus  to  begin.  Soon  as  de  choir  was  in 
full  tilt  he  gave  a  pull,  but  de  screw  wouldn't 
budge  for  de  sand  an'  de  grabbel. 

"  'Hallelujah!'  roared  de  basses,  an'  Hig- 
gins  pulled  ag'in  till  his  face  turned  red. 

"  'Hallelujah!'  tuck  up  de  'traltos,  an'  Hig- 
gins  give  another  pull,  an'  by  de  movin'  of  his 
lips  I  knowed  he  was  cussin'  a  blue  streak. 

"  'Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!'  shouted  de  ten- 
ors an'  spranners;  den  de  whole  business 
jined  in  together  as  if  dey  gwine  lif  de  roof 
off  de  church,  wid  Mrs.  Phillips  spreadin' 
herse'f  an'  outdoin'  'em  all.  Wid  ever'  shout 
Higgins  got  madder  an'  madder,  till  in  de 
middle  of  de  chorus  he  braced  his  feet  an' 
brought  a  jerk  what  busted  de  wrench,  an'  he 
went  over  back'ards  in  a  turrible  fall  across 
de  roots  of  de  tree,  an'  dar  he  laid  wid  a 
broken  leg. 

44  In  two  minutes  church  was  over. 

"  'I'm  sorry,  Dan,'  said  de  minister,  takin' 
off  his  surplus;  'but  the  way  of  the  transgres- 
sor is  hard.'  Den  he  hurried  out  whar  de 
people  was  gatherin'  about  Higgins,  an'  had 
him  carried  to  de  rectory,— for  Higgins  didn't 


42  aiafiama  i&futcfjes 


have  no  home  but  a  boardin'-house, — an'  dar 
he  stayed  two  months. 

"At  fust  Higgins  couldn't  understan'  dat 
play  of  de  minister,  nor  I  neither.  De 
mornin'  after  Easter,  when  I  come  in  de  room 
to  fotch  Higgins  his  breakfuss,  he  raised  his 
head  up  for  to  cuss  an'  swear;  den,  all  sud- 
den-lak,  he  glanced  at  de  minister  standin'  in 
de  door  behind  me,  an*  stopped  hisse'f.  Mr. 
Crofton  he  didn't  say  nothin\  He  jes' 
walked  to  de  bed  an'  tuck  Higgins's  han',  an* 
dey  looked  at  one  'nother  'bout  a  minute. 
Den  Higgins  turned  his  face  to  de  wall. 
When  de  minister  seed  dat,  he  put  de  nice 
breakfuss  on  de  table  by  de  bed  jes'  to  Hig- 
gins's  han',  an'  tuck  me  out  de  room  wid  him. 

"Dat  finished  de  man.  Lo  an'  behole,  nex' 
time  de  bishop  come,  Higgins  was  confirmed." 

"Dan,"  said  I,  "your  story  is  like  a  fairy 
tale." 

"What's  dat,  sah?" 

"A  story  where  everything  is  better  than  in 
real  life." 

"You  won't  find  dat  fault  wid  hit  when  you 
hyer  de  last  word,  sah,"  said  Dan,  with  a 
sigh.    "De  minister's  gwine  to  leave  us." 

"Going  away?" 

"Yes,  sah ;  Ginul  Tompkins  was  in  de  rights 


€f)e  Croutile  at  SbU  $ ames'a  43 


o*  hit.  Mr.  Crofton  is  too  big  a  man  for  Oak- 
ville,  an'  dey  have  made  him  a  bishop  up  in 
de  Northwest.  Dey  needs  him  out  dar,  'mong 
dem  Injuns  an'  Injun  agents.  I  hyer  tell 
dar's  men  up  dar  worser'n  Higgins.  " 

And  the  old  sexton  went  into  the  sanctuary 
to  sweep,  very  sorrowful. 


SISTER  TAYLOR'S  REGISTERED 
LETTER 


SISTER  TAYLOR'S  REGISTERED 
LETTER 


OSIAH,  ain't  Marthy  Taylor  come  for  it 


yet?"  asked  Miss  Eliza  Jackson  of  the 


village  postmaster. 

' 1 No,"  replied  Josiah  Bingham  to  the  ear- 
nest inquiry  of  the  spinster,  "and  her  boy 
Sam  says  that  she  ain't  a-comin\,, 

It  was  three  o'clock.  The  July  sun  slanted 
through  the  big-leafed  chestnut-oak  whose 
wide-spreading  boughs  shaded  the  door,  and 
whenever  the  drowsy  wind  stirred  the  foliage 
dappled  shadows  swayed  lazily  across  the 
threshold.  The  day  was  intensely  warm,  but 
curiosity  can  render  one  insensible  to  tem- 
perature, and  Miss  Eliza  was  certainly 
oblivious  of  the  heat. 

A  registered  letter — the  first  in  the  history 
of  Hickory  Hollow — had  come  to  the  little 
country  post-office,  and  the  Widow  Taylor,  to 
whom  it  was  addressed,  for  reasons  sufficient 
to  herself,  but  vastly  irritating  to  her  friends, 
obstinately  refused  to  go  to  the  office  and  sign 


47 


48  aiaimma  j&tutcfjea 


for  its  receipt.  To  no  one  was  Marthy  Tay- 
lor's conduct  more  exasperating  than  to  Miss 
Eliza,  her  bosom  friend;  indeed,  so  unreason- 
able was  Marthy's  behavior,  and  so  outdone 
her  crony,  that  had  not  curiosity  come  to  the 
rescue  of  affection  the  lifelong  tie  which  bound 
them  would  have  been  broken. 

"And  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it, 
Si?"  continued  the  old  brown  sunbonnet. 

"Send  it  back  to  the  person  who  wrote  it," 
said  the  piny-woods  postmaster,  filling  his 
pipe. 

"Josiah  Bingham !"  exclaimed  Eliza  in 
dismay. 

If  the  letter,  whose  author  Bingham  ever 
since  its  arrival  had  declined  to  divulge,  was 
returned  unopened,  no  one  at  the  Hollow 
would  know  its  contents. 

"Let  me  see  it  again,  Josiah. 99 

A  yellow  envelope,  handled  by  the  female 
denizens  of  the  hamlet  till  its  corners  were 
frazzled,  passed  over  the  counter.  Fasci- 
nated, Miss  Eliza  gazed  at  the  typewritten 
address,  and  pressed  the  wonderful  epistle 
between  her  forefinger  and  thumb.  Had  it 
been  a  lemon,  or  a  piece  of  sugar-cane,  how 
quickly  it  would  have  given  up  its  secret! 
Josiah  watched  the  process  over  his  pipe  with 


i&teter  Caglor'g  ^egfeterrt  Eetter  49 


an  amused  smile.  Suddenly  Miss  Eliza 
started  and  caught  her  breath,  and  he  laughed. 
At  the  mocking  sound  she  laid  the  letter  down 
and  sighed.  Days  and  nights  of  baffled  curi- 
osity had  made  her  hollow-eyed,  and  after  the 
start  she  had  given,  a  pathetic  look  came  into 
her  thin  face,  but  the  heartless  beholder 
viewed  the  old  maid  unmoved. 

"Josiah,"  she  said,  "Marthy  Taylor's  had 
a  power  o'  trouble.  Her  husband,  Jim  Tay- 
lor, got  in  debt,  and  lost  half  his  land.  Then 
he  had  the  rheumatism  for  six  months,  and 
when  he  got  up  again  nothin'  would  do  but  he 
must  go  across  the  Mississippi  to  look  for  his 
brother  Tom,  and  on  the  way  he  was  took 
down  with  the  fever  and  died,  and  Marthy  had 
to  sell  the  rest  of  the  land  to  pay  his  doctor's 
bill  and  funeral  expenses.  Seems  to  me, 
Josiah,  you'd  be  sorry  for  Marthy  Taylor." 

"I  am  sorry  for  Marthy — I'm  sorry  she's  so 
stubborn.  But  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 
said  Josiah,  glancing  toward  the  letter  which 
Eliza's  eyes  had  never  left. 

"It's  got  this  much,  Si  Bingham:  If  you 
was  truly  sorry  for  Marthy,  you'd  go  take  the 
letter  to  her  and — " 

"Take  it  to  her!"  interrupted  Josiah,  "why 
she  sent  me  word  by  Sam  that  she  wouldn't 


5°  aiatiama  5feetcJ)e0 


have  it  if  it  was  handed  her  on  a  silver 
waiter. " 

"Josiah  Bingham,  listen  till  I'm  through. 
What  I  propose  is  that  you  carry  it  with  the 
receipt  to  Marthy,  and  make  her  think  that 
the  law  requires  her  to  take  it  and  sign — that 
she'll  be  sent  to  jail  if  she  don't.  Do  it, 
Josiah,  and  I'll  go  ahead  and  help  you  to  per- 
suade her.  Who  knows  there  ain't  a  fortune 
inside  instead  of  the  bad  news  she's  expectin'. " 

"No,  Miss  Eliza,"  said  Josiah,  resolutely, 
"the  post-office  regulations  can't  be  broke  for 
a  woman's  whim-whams;  and  if  Marthy  Tay- 
lor don't  come  sign  for  it  before  to-morrow 
night,  that  letter's  goin'  back  to  the  one  who 
sent  it,  by  the  next  post."  And  the  object  of 
contention  disappeared  in  the  postmaster's 
iron  safe. 

When  Miss  Eliza  heard  the  lock  click  she 
left  the  store.  Josiah  was  hopeless.  But  a 
great  deal  may  be  done  in  twenty-four  hours, 
and  she  did  not  despair. 

Hidden  from  the  postmaster's  eyes  by  a 
bend  in  the  road,  she  turned  up  a  little  lane. 
In  spite  of  Josiah's  provoking  prudence,  un- 
known to  him  Eliza  had  made  a  great  dis- 
covery, which  concerned  her  quite  as  much  as 
Marthy,  and  with  the  perturbation  caused  by 


it,  came  an  irresistible  craving  for  sympathy 
and  counsel.  Running  over  the  women  of  the 
Hollow  hastily,  she  thought  that  Mary  Jane 
Higgins  would  be  least  likely  to  abuse  her 
confidence — at  all  events,  for  twenty-four 
hours.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  the  con- 
tents of  the  mysterious  letter  were  not  known 
to  her,  her  misery  would  be  too  great  for  her 
to  care  whether  Mary  Jane  told  or  not. 

Reaching  her  destination,  ere  she  was 
seated  something  in  Miss  Eliza's  manner 
made  Mrs.  Higgins  aware  of  the  momentous- 
ness  of  the  visit. 

" Has  Marthy  got  the  letter?"  exclaimed 
Mary  Jane. 

"No,  but  I've  found  out  who  wrote  it," 
replied  Miss  Eliza. 

"Did  Josiah  tell  you?" 

"Not  he,"  replied  Eliza,  resentfully.  "I 
found  it  out  by  accident.  I  asked  Josiah  to 
let  me  see  the  letter  again,  and  while  I  had  it 
in  my  hand,  a  corner  of  the  stamp  rose  up, 
and  I  saw  the  missing  part  of  the  postmark. 
You  see,  the  stamp  wasn't  well  stuck  on,  and 
the  missing  letters  got  printed  underneath." 

"And  the  letter  came  from — " 

"Texas." 

"But  who  wrote  it?" 


52  &latmma  gfctttyw 


uTom  Taylor,"'  and  Miss  Eliza  blushed. 
The  heart  of  an  old  maid  faithful  to  her  first 
love  is  like  a  jar  of  rose  leaves.  The  exterior 
may  be  forbidding,  but,  ah,  what  fragrance 
hides  within!  Though  a  score  of  years  had 
passed  since  Tom  Taylor  had  bidden  Miss 
Eliza  good-bye,  when  she  came  to  suspect 
that  he  was  the  author  of  the  wonderful  letter 
the  old  love  surged  up  in  her  heart,  and  the 
hope  of  her  youth  blossomed  anew. 

"I  thought  that  Tom  went  to  Arkansas," 
said  Mary  Jane. 

4  4  So  did  everybody  else.  But  when  father 
forbade  him  the  house,  and  he  went  away,  he 
wrote  me  a  letter/' 

"What  was  in  it,  Eliza?" 

44 1  never  knew.  Father  burned  it — all  but 
the  envelope.  That  was  postmarked  'Texas. '  " 

44And  you've  never  told  anybody  all  these 
years — not  even  after  your  father  died,"  said 
Mary  Jane,  solemnly.  4  4  Now  I  know,  Eliza 
Jackson,  why  you  never  married!" 

Miss  Eliza  silently  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
there  was  a  long  pause. 

4 4 Mary  Jane,"  said  the  old  maid,  tearfully, 
44if  I  had  known  Tom  Taylor's  address,  I'd 
have  answered  him.  If  Marthy  Taylor  would 
only  receive  that  registered  letter  I  might 


write  to  him  now.  But  Marthy  won't  have  it, 
and  Josiah's  going  to  send  it  back  to-morrow 
night — and,  oh,  Mary  Jane,  what  shall  I  do?" 

4 4 It's  a  shame,"  said  Mary  Jane,  indig- 
nantly. "Marthy's  standin'  in  her  own  light; 
Tom  may  be  sending  her  money,  or,"  and  the 
speaker's  eyes  shone,  "he  may  be  writin'  to 
find  out  if  you  are  still  single!" 

The  latter  possibility  made  Miss  Eliza's 
heart  leap,  and  started  her  tears  afresh. 

4  4  Seems  to  me, ' '  continued  Mary  Jane,  4  4  that 
Marthy's  troubles  have  gone  to  her  head  and 
unsettled  her  mind.  Every  woman  in  the 
Hollow's  been  and  talked  to  her,  and  it's  only 
made  her  more  stubborn." 

44 Yes,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  <4but  we've  all 
gone  separately.  Maybe,  Mary  Jane,  if  we 
went  together,  and — " 

4 4 To  be  sure,"  interrupted  Mary  Jane,  with 
flashing  eyes,  44I  never  thought  of  that!  Let's 
all  go  in  a  body,  and  take  Elder  Lawton 
along.  If  she  won't  listen  to  us  women,  she'll 
never  be  able  to  stand  out  against  the  elder. 
We'll  go  this  afternoon;  it  ain't  too  late." 

The  newly  formed  plan  met  the  indorsement 
of  every  one;  not  a  woman  refused  to  go,  not 
even  old  Granny  Summerfield,  who  was  eighty 
years  old,  and  nearly  deaf  and  blind,  and  was 


54  &ia6ama  Stftetcfje* 


asked  by  Mary  Jane  to  show  Marthy  how 
serious  was  the  matter  in  hand.  So  ener- 
getic was  Mary  Jane  that  in  less  than  an  hour 
the  party,  sixteen  strong,  walking  two  and 
two  like  a  funeral  procession  and  led  by 
the  elder's  high  hat,  approached  Marthy's 
door. 

She  received  them  grimly,  and  when  all  had 
taken  their  seats  in  a  semicircle,  sat  down, 
with  her  boy  Sam  standing  behind  her  chair, 
and  waited  for  developments.  The  impor- 
tance of  the  occasion,  as  Eliza  and  Mary 
Jane  had  hoped,  was  fully  impressed  upon 
her.  She  had  battled  separately  with  every 
woman  present  in  regard  to  the  unwelcome 
letter,  and  had  come  off  victorious,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  fight  them  all  together;  but 
the  elder  —  that  was  taking  an  unfair  advantage 
of  her. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  Eliza  should  make 
the  first  assault,  but  Marthy's  look  of  anger 
was  not  lost  upon  Eliza,  and  she  furtively 
signed  to  Mary  Jane  to  begin. 

"Marthy,"  said  the  latter,  thoroughly 
frightened  by  the  honor  unexpectedly  thrust 
upon  her — 4  4  Marthy,  we  are  all  your  friends, 
and  we  hate  to  see  you  a-standin'  in  your  own 
light,  so  we've  come  around — we've  come — 


i&feter  Caglot's  lElegt^teretr  Uttttt  55 


we've  come — "  and  inspiration  failing  her, 
Mary  Jane  looked  at  the  elder  and  the  other 
women  panic-stricken. 

"Yes,  Mary  Jane,"  said  Marthy,  smiling 
acidly,  "I  see  you  are  all  here;  there  ain't 
none  o'  you  missin'." 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  Granny  Sum- 
merfield,  looking  from  Marthy  to  the  others, 
with  her  hand  to  her  ear.  "Is  she  a-goin'  to 
get  the  letter?" 

"No,  Granny,"  exclaimed  Marthy,  raising 
her  voice,  "and  nobody  can  make  me  go." 

Granny  advanced  her  chair  and  strained  her 
ears,  delighted  to  be  addressed  personally. 

"I  know  what  they  are  all  come  for, 
Granny,"  continued  Marthy,  ignoring  every 
one  but  the  old  woman,  "and  I  know  it's  all 
Eliza  Jackson's  doin's.  Eliza  is  makin'  a 
cat's  paw  o'  Mary  Jane  Higgins,  and  Mary 
Jane  ain't  got  sense  enough  to  see  it." 

And  Marthy's  eyes  glared  back  and  forth 
between  Eliza  and  Mary  Jane  till  the  latter 
burst  into  tears. 

A  group  of  women  gathered  around  her  and 
attempted  consolation.  *  *  There — there — Mary 
Jane!  Don't  take  on  so.  She  don't  mean 
what  she  says,"  they  cried,  patting  the  hysteri- 
cal woman  on  the  back  to  little  purpose. 


56  aiafiama  &ktttf>t$ 


4 4 Yes,  I  do  mean  it — every  word!"  said 
Marthy,  her  eyes  snapping. 

"Marthy  Taylor"  —  Miss  Eliza  could  re- 
strain herself  no  longer — "you  always  were 
stubborn  and  headstrong,  and  maybe  that's 
why  Providence  has  punished  you  in  the  past. 
If  you'd  a-listened  to  Mary  Jane  instead  o' 
insultin'  us  both,  she'd  a-told  what  the  elder 
and  all  of  us  think.  You  are  countin'  on  that 
letter  bringin'  you  bad  tidings,  but  it's  our 
idea  that  it  may  hold  the  best  news  you  ever 
had." 

"Good  news  for  me!"  exclaimed  Marthy, 
bitterly.  "I  ain't  never  had  any  good  news 
since  I  was  born.  It's  liker  to  bring  me  more 
debts  o'  Jim's  for  me  to  pay;  or  else  that 
worthless  brother  o'  his  has  got  into  some 
scrape  and  wants  me  to  help  him  out  of  it." 

"Shame  on  you,  Marthy!"  said  Miss  Eliza, 
indignantly.  "It's  a  foul  bird  that  bewrays 
its  own  nest." 

"Tom  Taylor  never  came  from  my  nest. 
And  if  I  was  you,  Eliza  Jackson,  I  wouldn't 
take  up  for  a  man  that  made  an  old  maid  o' 
me,"  retorted  Marthy.  • 

"Come  —  come,  sisters,"  said  the  elder, 
thinking  it  time  to  interpose;  "don't  speak  in 
wrath."    Then  he  turned  to  Marthy. 


Stetn:  Cantor's  2&egteterrtr  Hetter  57 


"Sister  Taylor,  you've  been  sorely  afflicted, 
we  all  know,  but  your  troubles  have  been  sent 
for  your  good,  and  not  to  harden  your  heart. 
Now  regarding  this  letter,  which  is  the  cause 
of  our  presence,  it  is  your  duty  to  receive  it 
in  a  Christian  spirit,  whether  its  message  be 
one  of  joy  or  sorrow.  But  it's  my  belief,  and 
that  of  all  your  friends,  that  the  clouds  are 
a-liftin'.  If  such  be  the  case,  think  how  sin- 
ful it  would  be  to  blind  your  eyes  to  the  light 
that's  breakin'  through.  Should  you  persist 
in  your  present  course,  you  will  grieve  the 
hearts  of  all  your  friends,  act  against  the 
interest  of  your  orphan  boy,  and  defraud 
the  author  of  the  letter  of  the  sum  of  twelve 
cents.  Reconsider,  Sister  Taylor,  I  beg  of 
you,  before  it's  too  late." 

The  elder  looked  pleadingly  at  Marthy,  but 
she  remained  steadfast,  and  seeing  that  his 
appeal  had  been  uttered  in  vain,  the  old  man 
addressed  the  disappointed  women:  "Sisters, 
let  us  unite  in  prayer." 

For  the  elder  and  all  to  assume  that  they 
were  right  and  she  wrong  was  beyond  measure 
irritating  to  Marthy;  to  be  prayed  over  was 
more  than  she  could  bear.  But  she  waited  till 
the  pious  petition  was  ended,  and  then  in 
the  midst  of   the   fervent  amens  abruptly 


58  aiafiama  g&titty* 


left  the  room,  and  the  assembly  broke  up  in 
confusion. 

When  the  gate  closed  behind  them,  the 
women  gathered  in  knots  and  proceeded 
slowly  homeward,  discussing  Marthy's  scanda- 
lous behavior;  for  like  the  industrious  bee 
which  sucks  honey  from  every  flower,  gossip 
finds  matter  for  discourse  in  all  things,  and 
plucks  solace  even  from  defeat. 

But  for  Miss  Eliza  there  was  no  comfort  - 
anywhere.  She  had  given  up  all  hope  con- 
cerning the  letter,  and  unnoticed  by  the 
other  women,  hurried  home.  It  was  nearly 
dark  ere  she  arrived,  and,  picking  up  a  pail, 
she  was  going  out  to  milk  the  cow,  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  bare  feet  trotting  behind 
her. 

4 'Sam  Taylor !"  Miss  Eliza  leaned  against 
the  cowshed. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Miss  Eliza." 

"Your  mother  ain't  sick,  or  nothing" 

"No,  I've  come  to  tell  you  some'h'n,"  said 
the  boy,  out  of  breath.  "Don't  you  mind 
what  mammy  said.  She's  worried  nearly  to 
death  because  we're  so  poor.  We're  mighty 
nigh  starvin',  Miss  Eliza,  but  mammy's  proud, 
and  that's  what  makes  her  act  so  con- 


trary.  Miss  Eliza,  do  you  think  that  letter 
might  be  from  Uncle  Tom,  and  have  money 
in  it?" 

"Sam,  I'm  sure  it's  from  your  uncle. 
Whether  or  not  it's  got  money  in  it,  I  don't 
know;  but  I  believe  it  brings  good  news  of 
some  sort. " 

4 ' Then  mammy's  got  to  have  it,"  said  the 
boy,  his  eyes  shining  in  the  dark. 

"It's  no  use,  Sam,"  sighed  Miss  Eliza, 
gloomily.    "You've  talked  to  her?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  Sam. 

"I've  talked  to  her.  Everybody's  argued 
with  her,  and  at  last  we  took  the  elder.  It's 
no  use. " 

"I  tell  you,  Miss  Eliza,  mammy's  got  to 
have  that  letter.  Talkin'  ain't  everythin'. 
I've  talked,  but  I  ain't  done." 

"What  can  you  do,  poor  child?"  exclaimed 
Miss  Eliza,  compassionately. 

"That's  my  secret;  but  if  mammy  don't 
read  that  letter  before  to-morrow  night,  I'll 
eat  my  hat,"  laughed  Sam,  and  he  disap- 
peared in  the  night. 

"Sam!  Sam!"  called  Miss  Eliza,  "come 
back!"  She  was  alarmed.  Suppose  Sam, 
trying  to  enter  the  store  to  abstract  the  letter 


6o  aiaiama  S>ftetcfje* 


should  be  shot  by  Josiah  for  a  thief!  She 
wished  she  had  told  him  it  was  locked  up  in 
Bingham's  safe. 

She  waited  a  moment,  hoping  that  Sam 
would  return,  then  going  to  the  fence  she 
looked  down  the  road,  but  he  was  gone,  and 
she  came  back  to  the  cowshed  with  another 
anxiety  upon  her  troubled  soul. 

Early  next  morning  she  sought  Mary  Jane 
again,  and  discussing  Sam's  visit,  they  agreed 
that  the  boy's  wild  scheme  must  be  prevented, 
or  Josiah  informed  of  his  design.  While  they 
were  yet  debating  the  matter,  Sam  passed  the 
door  and  was  called  in. 

"I  never  said  nothin'  about  breakin'  in 
Josiah  Bingham's  store,"  said  Sam,  regarding 
Miss  Eliza  reproachfully. 

"But  we  know  you  were  goin'  to,  Sam," 
said  Miss  Eliza. 

Sam  meditated  a  moment. 

He  had  supposed  that  Miss  Eliza  would 
keep  her  counsel.  But  since  she  had  told 
Mary  Jane  he  well  knew  that  unless  he  threw 
the  latter  off  the  track  the  whole  village  would 
speedily  be  made  aware  of  his  resolution,  and 
every  woman  in  it  might  watch  him  so  closely 
that  it  would  endanger  the  execution  of  the 
cunning  stratagem  which  he  had  devised. 


"Well,  Miss  Eliza,  don't  fret.  If  the 
letter's  locked  up  in  Josiah  Bingham's  safe, 
it'll  have  to  stay  there  for  all  of  me,"  and 
Sam  walked  away  with  well-simulated  de- 
spair. 

"Them  women!"  said  he,  disgustedly. 
"Can't  none  of  'em  keep  a  secret.  It's  me 
ag'in  the  Hollow,"  he  continued,  sauntering 
along,  whistling  softly.  "And  the  first  thing 
is  to  fix  Josiah. " 

"Mr.  Bingham,  mammy's  weakenin',"  he 
said,  a  few  moments  later,  leaning  over  the 
counter. 

"She's  comin'  for  the  letter?" 

"  'Twouldn't  no  ways  s'prise  me  if  she  did. 
We  had  a  big  time  at  our  house  yesterday. 
The  whole  settlement  was  there, —  I  mean  all 
the  women  folks, —  and  they  brought  Elder 
Lawton.  But  mammy  was  game.  They 
talked  to  her,  and  mammy  talked  back  and 
give  'em  as  good  as  they  brought,  as  long  as 
they  fit  fair." 

"How?"  queried  Josiah. 

"Why,  when  mammy'd  cleaned  out  all  the 
women,  and  got  the  best  o'  the  elder,  too,  he 
ups  and  prays  over  her.  I  think  it  was  a 
durned  mean  trick." 

A  pause. 


62  Alabama  S&etcfjes 


4 'Mr.  Bingham  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
some'h'n. '; 

"What  is  it,  Sam?" 

"Mr.  Bingham,  if  mammy  comes  down  here 
for  that  letter,  don't  say  nothin'  to  her,  nor 
ask  no  questions,  'cause  she  feels  powerful 
sore.  Just  let  her  sign  and  get  away  as  quick 
as  you  can." 

Josiah  consented.  "I  won't  say  a  word, 
Sam,  but  hand  her  the  letter  and  receipt  as 
soon  as  she  comes  in." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam,  and  left  the 
store. 

For  the  women  of  the  Hollow  the  day  was 
one  of  unalloyed  gloom.  Many  were  the  dis- 
consolate glances  cast  in  the  direction  of 
Marthy  Taylor's  gate,  but  nobody  dared  to 
enter.  Neither  did  any  one  repair  to  the  post- 
office  for  a  parting  look  at  the  document 
whose  arrival  had  so  perturbed  the  village. 
But  the  calm  was  deceitful.  Little  dreamed 
the  inhabitants  that  they  were  sleeping,  so  to 
speak,  over  a  mine  whose  explosion  would 
cause  an  excitement  beside  which  all  previous 
emotions  were  destined  to  sink  into  nothing- 
ness. 

It  was  the  happy  fate  ot  Mary  Jane  Higgins 
to  discover  the  lighted  fuse;  perhaps  as  a 


Sbtottz  Castor's  lUgfatm*  Uttttx  63 


reward  for  the  philanthropic  errand  on  which 
she  was  engaged  at  the  time.  It  happened  in 
this  wise. 

Toward  sunset  it  occurred  to  Mary  Jane's 
kind  heart  that  it  would  be  a  good  deed  to 
visit  Miss  Eliza  and  aid  her  in  bearing  up 
against  her  heavy  disappointment.  On  this 
worthy  mission,  just  as  she  was  about  to  enter 
Miss  Eliza's  gate  she  saw  Marthy's  door 
open  and  the  widow  peer  furtively  down  the 
road  as  if  to  see  if  the  coast  was  clear. 

At  the  vision,  Mary  Jane  slunk  out  of  view 
within  the  gateway,  and  beheld  Marthy  make 
her  way  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  post- 
office. 

14 Eliza,  she's  gone  for  the  letter!"  ex- 
claimed Mary  Jane,  wildly,  and  in  a  jiffy  the 
two  women  were  out  of  the  gate. 

In  the  road  they  were  speedily  joined  by 
other  women,  for  Mary  Jane's  eyes  were  not 
the  only  ones  to  spy  Marthy  set  forth,  and 
before  the  latter  had  reached  the  store,  the 
whole  village,  with  the  elder  in  the  van,  were 
on  Marthy's  trail. 

"It's  the  Lord's  doing,  sisters.  But  don't 
follow  her  too  close,"  exclaimed  the  elder, 
still  keeping  ahead. 

Josiah  was  evidently  true  to  his  word,  for 


64  ailafiama  &fctit%t$ 


Marthy  remained  scarcely  half  a  minute  within. 
When  she  came  out,  she  tore  open  the  envel- 
ope and,  gazing  at  the  contents  a  moment, 
gave  a  yell  that  almost  froze  the  blood  of  all 
the  spectators,  and  then  turned  a  series  of 
somersaults  in  the  road. 

4  4  The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  her, "  said  the 
elder.    * 4 She's  lost  her  mind.,, 

4 4  What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  cried  Granny 
Summerfield.  The  yell  had  entered  even  her 
deaf  ears. 

4 4 She's  gone  crazy,"  answered  Mary  Jane. 

4 4 Poor  thing!  Poor  thing!"  chorused  the 
other  women. 

4  4  We  must  catch  her  and  get  the  letter 
before  she  destroys  it,"  said  the  elder,  and  all 
hurried  after  Marthy,  who  had  started  home- 
ward at  the  top  of  her  speed. 

Just  as  pursued  and  pursuers  reached  the 
widow's  gate  the  door  of  the  house  opened, 
and  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  a  second 
Marthy  stood  before  them  and  faced  her 
double  running  up  the  walk. 

440h,  mammy!  mammy!  I've  got  the  letter!" 
called  Sam,  tossing  off  his  mother's  bonnet. 
44It's  from  Uncle  Tom.  He's  just  heard 
about  pap's  death,  and  how  poor  we  are,  and 
he's  sent  us  two  hundred  dollars  —  and  he's 


Stater  Caglor's  ^Ugfetmlr  %tittx  65 


comin'  home  to  buy  back  the  land!  Read  it, 
mammy!" 

For  a  moment  Marthy  stared  like  one  in  a 
trance,  then  she  sat  down  on  the  step  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  apron,  sobbing. 

" Shall  I  read  it  to  you,  Sister  Taylor?"  said 
the  elder. 

Marthy  nodded  assent. 

It  was  even  as  Sam  had  said. 

When  the  elder  finished,  he  added:  "That's 
all  that  concerns  you,  Sister  Taylor.  There's 
a  postscript,  but  that  is  for  Sister  Eliza 
Jackson." 


THE  DRAGON  CANDLESTICK 


THE  DRAGON  CANDLESTICK 


HOW  came  it,  this  strange  object  of  Old 
World  art,  suggestive  of  lithe  fingers 
and  bizarre  fantasies,  and  breathing  of  Italy 
and  the  Renaissance,  in  a  West  Alabama 
mansion  in  the  year  18 — ?  Though  the  skies 
were  as  blue  and  the  winds  were  as  soft  as 
those  of  Italy,  and  though  the  harrying  hand 
of  civil  war  had  given  the  house  a  look  of 
premature  antiquity,  made  pathetically  beau- 
tiful by  embowering  trees  and  old-fashioned 
flowers,  yet  the  eerie  bit  of  rococo  did  not 
seem  at  home  in  its  New  World  surround- 
ings. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  a  drowsy  Southern 
June,  it  stood  between  Dorothy  Randall  and 
her  mother  on  the  table  by  the  window;  and 
under  a  glass  case  similar  to  those  that  are 
sometimes  placed  over  small  clocks  and  wax 
flowers  to  protect  them  from  the  dust,  it 
looked  quaint  and  beautiful.  The  design  was 
that  of  a  mediaeval  dragon,  with  scales  and 
wings  of  varicolored  metal.  In  the  dragon's 
69 


7°  aiafiama  S&rtcfjw 


mouth,  which  formed  the  socket,  was  a  candle 
of  pink  wax,  the  sides  of  which  were  embel- 
lished by  a  delicate  tracery  of  vines  and  flow- 
ers; and  the  bit  of  wick  at  the  tip  of  the 
candle,  which  had  never  been  lighted,  had 
grown  yellow  with  age,  so  that  it  looked  as  if 
it  were  of  silk. 

From  the  manner  with  which  it  was  re- 
garded by  mother  and  daughter  it  was  clear 
that  the  table  by  the  window  was  not  its  usual 
resting-place,  but  that  it  had  been  recently 
brought  forth  from  safe-keeping  for  an  espe- 
cial reason. 

"It  is  marvellously  beautiful/'  said  the 
young  girl,  after  a  deep-drawn  breath;  and 
with  a  wondering  look  in  her  pretty  gray  eyes 
she  carefully  lifted  the  glass  case  from  the 
curio.  "See,  mother,  see!"  she  added,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  in  admiration,  as  the  wind,  softly 
shifting  the  rose-vine  that  clambered  over  the 
western  window,  let  in  a  tiny  sunbeam,  which 
gayly  flickered  and  danced  upon  the  dragon's 
wings  and  scales  of  many  colors. 

The  two  women  were  attired  in  black,  and 
the  shadow  that  lingered  on  their  pale  South- 
ern faces,  and  subdued  even  the  young  girl's 
tones  of  admiration,  showed  that  they  had 
recently  suffered  some  heavy  affliction. 


44  Mother,  why  have  you  never  let  me  see  it 
before?' ' 

Mrs.  Randall  sighed. 

4 4 For  the  reason,  my  child,  that  your  father 
would  never  suffer  it  to  be  shown,  and  but 
rarely  mentioned  it,  because  it  brought  to 
mind  his  Cousin  Tom,  of  whom  he  was  very 
fond;  and  since  your  father  died  the  thought 
of  the  dragon  candlestick  has  not  occurred  to 
me  till  to-day/' 

4 4 Did  it  belong  to  Cousin  Tom?"  asked 
Dollie,  for  so  most  people  continued  to  call 
the  girl  despite  her  increased  inches  and 
her  eighteen  years. 

44Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  and  her  glance 
passed  quickly  from  the  candlestick  to  an  old 
yellow  envelope  sealed  with  green  wax  which 
she  held  in  her  lap.  So  interested  was  Dollie 
in  the  candlestick  that  she  had  not  observed 
this  latter  object. 

"I've  heard  it  hinted  that  Cousin  Tom 
was  not  in  his  right  mind;  is  it  true, 
mother?" 

4 4 No!"  Mrs.  Randall  said,  decidedly.  Then, 
after  a  short  pause,  she  continued  with  some- 
what less  decision:  4 4 Tom  Randall  was  never 
out  of  his  mind.  He  was  merely  different 
from  other  people." 


72  aiafiama  &ktttf>t$ 


4  4  In  what  way  did  he  betray  his  eccentri- 
city?" 

44I  prefer  that  you  should  not  use  the  word 
eccentricity  in  connection  with  your  Cousin 
Tom,  my  dear.  It  does  not  seem  quite  the 
appropriate  word,  and  jars  upon  me." 

4  4  People  say  that  the  wound  in  his  head — M 

"I  know  what  people  say,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Randall.  4  4  Tom  was  no  queerer  with  the 
bullet  in  his  head  than  before." 

4  4  How  did  Cousin  Tom  come  into  possession 
of  the  candlestick?"  the  girl  went  on,  with 
growing  interest. 

4  4 We  never  knew.  When  the  war  was  over 
and  Tom  came  back  from  the  army,  he  said 
he  could  not  begin  life  again  in  the  midst  of 
so  much  desolation;  so  he  sold  his  property 
and  went  abroad,  and  we  heard  nothing  of  him 
for  seven  years." 

44Where  did  he  go?" 

44I  don't  know.  When  he  came  back  he 
didn't  give  any  detailed  account  of  where  he 
had  been  or  what  he  had  done.  Indeed,  so 
reserved  was  he  that  we  did  not  know  he  pos- 
sessed the  dragon  candlestick  till  the  day 
before  he  died;  and  the  facts  connected  with 
this  candlestick  constitute,  in  my  opinion,  the 
only  evidence   against  poor   Tom's  sanity. 


Cfie  JBragon  ©antolesti'cft  73 


When  he  was  near  his  end  he  made  this  bit  of 
bric-a-brac  the  centre  of  a  mystery  which  is 
still  unsolved. 99 

Mrs.  Randall  began  again  to  finger  the 
green-sealed  envelope  in  a  nervous  manner, 
looking  the  while  at  the  yellowed  paper  and 
its  unbroken  seal  with  a  kind  of  curious  eager- 
ness. But  Dollie  continued  to  be  engrossed 
with  the  candlestick,  on  which  her  eyes  fixed 
themselves  in  a  dreamy  gaze.  Outside  the 
window  the  fluting  of  the  breeze  sank  to  a 
mournful  cadence,  and  the  rose-vine  again 
shifted  its  position,  shutting  out  the  little  sun- 
beam which  had  danced  about  the  candlestick, 
making  the  little  dragon  glimmer  with  an  eerie 
lustre. 

"Oh,  mother,  there's  a  letter,  too!  Where 
did  you  get  it?"  said  Dollie,  waking  from 
her  reverie  and  reaching  eagerly  for  the  time- 
yellowed  document  on  her  mother's  knee. 

Mrs.  Randall,  with  a  little  start,  moved  it 
out  of  her  reach. 

"Wait,  my  dear.  Be  patient  with  me.  I 
feel  a  little  unnerved  this  afternoon.  The 
sight  of  these  things  makes  poor  Tom's  mem- 
ory so  vivid  it  almost  seems  as  if  I  could 
see — 99  The  quivering  voice  broke  and  could 
not  finish. 


74  aiafiama  Sftetcf)** 


A  new  thought  thrilled  Dollie.  Had  her 
Cousin  Tom  been  her  father's  rival?  It  re- 
quires something  more  than  the  desolation  of 
his  country  to  make  a  strong  man  a  silent 
exile  for  seven  years. 

"Let  us  put  the  candlestick  and  envelope 
by  till  to-morrow,  or  another  day  when  you 
feel  stronger,  mother. " 

"No!"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  with  piteous  reso- 
lution. "I  must  open  the  envelope  to-day. 
You  do  not  know  all  that  it  means  to  me.  It 
is  my  last  hope,  and  the  future  is  so  dark! 
It  seems  as  if  the  claims  arising  from  your 
father's  failure  would  never  cease.  The 
executor  tells  me  now  that  our  home  must  be 
sold,  for  it  also  is  mortgaged,  and  the  note 
falls  due  in  a  month. " 

"Yes,  mother,  I  know;  but  what  do  you 
expect  from  the  candlestick  and  envelope?" 

4 4 1  hardly  know.  Tom  was  strongly  opposed 
to  your  father's  mercantile  venture,  and  tried 
to  prevent  it,  so  I  can't  help  hoping  that  his 
kind  foresight  may  come  to  our  rescue,  even 
after  his  death,  in  some  way  through  this 
envelope  or  candlestick." 

Mrs.  Randall  looked  at  her  daughter  with 
more  of  fear  than  hope  in  her  troubled 
face. 


W$z  JBtagon  (ttantilesti'cfe  75 


Dollie  drew  a  little  footstool  to  her  side, 
and  sitting  down,  took  her  mother's  hand  in 
both  her  own. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "we  have  been  through 
much  together;  don't  let  us  be  down-hearted. 
Something  will  turn  up,  be  sure." 

4 4 Oh,  my  child,  I  don't  know.  Everything 
seems  to  be  failing  us.  If  I  could  only  believe 
what  Tom  said  the  day  before  he  died!  But 
suppose  the  people  are  right  who  think  that 
he  was  deranged!" 

Dollie's  heart  ached  for  her  mother,  but  it 
was  clear  to  her  that  the  story  must  be  told 
and  the  envelope  opened  before  Mrs.  Randall 
could  be  restored  to  calmness. 

4  4 What  did  Cousin  Tom  say  the  day  before 
he  died?" 

44Tom's  health  failed  gradually,"  Mrs.  Ran- 
dall began.  4  4  It  came  to  us  slowly  and  with- 
out being  told  that  he  could  not  get  well. 
For  several  days  he  had  lain  almost  in  a 
stupor,  when  one  afternoon  he  brightened  up 
and  called  your  father  and  me  to  him.  He 
told  us  he  knew  he  could  not  live  many  days, 
perhaps  not  many  hours,  and  there  was  some- 
thing he  wished  to  do  before  it  was  too  late. 
In  obedience  to  his  direction,  I  brought  him  a 
carefully  tied  package  from  a  chest  he  had. 


76  aiafiama  &ktttttt& 


He  opened  the  package  and  took  from  it  the 
candlestick  and  this  sealed  envelope.  Then 
he  remarked  that  what  he  was  about  to  say 
was  of  the  utmost  importance,  though  it  might 
not  appear  so. 

4  4  4 1  know  you  both  so  well/  said  he,  4and 
love  you  so  dearly,  that  I  feel  sure  you  would 
observe  my  wish,  even  if  it  were  not  the  last 
injunction  of  a  dying  man.  You  must  never 
part  with  this  candlestick,  nor  remove  the 
candle  which  it  holds.  This  bit  of  bric-a-brac 
is  the  most  valuable  of  all  my  small  posses- 
sions. It  has  some  worth  as  a  work  of  art, 
but  it  is  not  for  that  reason  that  I  wish  you  to 
prize  it.  Take  it  and  this  sealed  envelope, 
and  guard  them  carefully.  The  world  is  going 
well  with  you  now.  I  hope  it  may  continue  to 
do  so.'  Then  he  looked  at  me  and  sighed, 
and  I  knew  he  was  thinking  of  your  father's 
business  enterprises. 

4  4  4  But  if  the  tide  should  turn/  he  resumed, 
'and  trouble  mount  upon  trouble  till  sorrow 
and  disaster  seem  about  to  engulf  you,  then, 
after  every  expedient  has  been  tried,  and  tried 
in  vain,  and  all  seems  hopeless,  then  bring 
forth  this  candlestick  and  envelope  and  break 
the  seal/  " 

"How  queer,  mother  I"  said  Dollie,  breath- 


Cfje  mtagon  Otanlilesttcft  77 


lessly.  44  Did  he  add  nothing  to  throw  light 
on  this  strange  injunction?' ' 

44  Nothing.  In  a  few  moments  delirium  set 
in, — if  it  had  not  already  begun, — and  he  died 
at  daybreak. " 

44 What  did  father  think?' ' 

44He  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Several 
times  after  his  business  troubles  began  I  urged 
him  to  open  the  envelope,  but  each  time  he 
replied  that  the  hour  specified  by  poor  Tom 
had  not  come,  and  refused  to  break  the  seal. 
But  now  it  seems  to  me  that  the  time  has 
arrived. " 

4 4 It  certainly  has,"  said  Dollie,  emphati- 
cally, for  a  slight  tone  of  doubt  in  her 
mother's  conclusion  showed  a  desire  for  rein- 
forcement. 

The  sun  was  almost  down.  The  slanting 
rays  glided  through  the  window  and  played 
upon  the  opposite  wall,  limning  quaint  fres- 
coes of  dappled  light  and  shade  in  the  form  of 
leaves  and  roses,  which  replied  like  echo  pic- 
tures to  the  flowers  and  foliage  swaying  in  the 
breeze.  Some  of  the  beams  fell  upon  the 
candlestick,  making  the  little  dragon's  eyes 
twinkle  with  expectancy. 

It  was  a  momentous  hour  to  the  two  women 
in  black.    Dollie  could  not  guess  the  contents 


78  aiafiama  &kttt$t& 


of  the  envelope,  and  vainly  endeavored  to  sur- 
mise what  connection  it  could  have  with  the 
candlestick.  Her  mothers  hopes  were  more 
definite.  Mrs.  Randall  mentally  set  aside  the 
candlestick,  and  placed  her  faith  in  the  time- 
yellowed,  green-sealed  document.  A  sealed 
envelope  with  a  mystery  attached  to  it  may 
contain  almost  anything — titles  to  real  estate, 
railroad  bonds,  or  even  delightfully  prosaic 
bank  bills;  and  in  her  excitement  it  seemed 
as  if  she  dared  not  break  the  seal  of  the  dead, 
for,  with  Dollie's  eager  eyes  following  each 
tremulous  motion,  she  took  her  well-worn 
scissors  and  timidly  clipped  an  end  of  the 
envelope  and  drew  out  the  contents.  A 
glance  told  her  they  were  neither  titles, 
bonds,  nor  bank  bills.  A  single  sheet  was  all, 
but  being  of  parchment  it  had  given  the  envel- 
ope a  deceptive  thickness. 

44 Take  it,  Dorothy,  take  it!"  Mrs.  Randall 
exclaimed,  her  eyes  dimmed  by  suppressed 
tears.    "Take  it,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

The  parchment  crackled  in  the  girl's  im- 
patient fingers. 

"Why,  mother,  it  is  a  bit  of  verse  in  some 
foreign  language — Italian,  I  think;  yes,  it  is 
Italian,  and  the  writing  is  very  indistinct. 
That  doesn't  matter,  however,  for  Cousin 


W§t  Dragon  (Kantrleattcft  79 


Tom,  or  some  one,  has  added  below  it  an  Eng- 
lish translation." 
"Read  it!" 

"  When  fortune  jeers, 

And  full  of  tears, 
Hope  limps  on  leaden  sandal, 

Be  not  downcast, 

But  hie  thee  fast 
And  light  the  Dragon  Candle." 

"Is  there  no  more?" 

"That  is  all,"  said  Dollie,  gazing  at  the 
parchment,  thoroughly  mystified. 

"Then  we  are  ruined!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Randall,  despairingly,  through  her  tears. 

"Mother,  I  am  going  to  light  the  candle," 
said  Dollie,  striking  a  match. 

"Stop!"  Mrs.  Randall  cried.  "You  have 
the  faith  that  would  move  mountains.  To 
me,  all  is  now  as  clear  as  day.  Your  Cousin 
Tom  must  always  have  had  a  streak  of  insan- 
ity, and  doubtless  while  abroad  he  was  imposed 
upon  by  some  swindling  fakir,  and  induced  to 
give  an  extravagant  price  for  the  candlestick 
on  account  of  the  absurd  legend  accompanying 
it.  It  is  just  the  kind  of  story  to  captivate 
poor  Tom's  fancy." 

Dollie  gazed  at  the  little  dragon  in  silence, 
unconvinced. 


8o  aiafiama  Sfcetcije* 


"My  dear  child,  can't  you  see  that  the 
whole  affair  bears  the  stamp  of  fraud  or  insan- 
ity? Do  you  attribute  to  the  candlestick  the 
properties  of  Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp,  and 
believe  that  the  lighting  of  the  candle  will 
evoke  a  marvellous  genius  with  power  to 
make  us  rich  and  great?" 

"No,  mother,  I  don't  think  that.  I  don't 
know  what  I  think.  But  I'm  going  to  light 
the  candle.  " 

"Dorothy,  stop!  I  command  you.  I  feel 
that  should  you  do  as  you  wish  it  would  be 
using  a  dead  man's  weakness  to  mock  his 
memory.  In  our  affliction  let  us  bear  our- 
selves with  becoming  dignity.  Take  the 
candlestick  away;  the  sight  of  it  is  painful  to 
me. " 

When  Mrs.  Randall  finished  speaking  the 
little  dragon  looked  very  sorrowful,  or  so 
Dollie  thought,  and  after  a  brief  reverie  the 
girl  carried  him  away. 

Meantime  the  sun  had  set,  and  dusk  began 
to  gather  around  the  old  house.  The  negro 
plough  hands,  returning  from  the  cotton-fields, 
went  by  on  their  mules,  with  trace  chains 
clinking  time  to  their  plantation  songs.  Dusk 
thickened  to  darkness,  through  whose  cooling 
folds,  damp  with  dew,  the  cowbells  in  the  lane 


W$t  29ragon  Otantiieattcfc  81 


rang  softer  and  slower,  till  all  were  hushed  in 
sleep  beneath  the  low-boughed  oaks.  So  the 
long  evening  dragged  itself  away  in  sadness, 
almost  in  silence;  and  after  her  mother  had 
retired,  nothing  was  left  to  keep  Dollie  com- 
pany but  a  clear-voiced  mocking-bird  singing 
on  the  crest  of  a  tall  magnolia. 

After  the  girl  had  gone  to  bed  she  remained 
a  long  time  awake,  her  head  full  of  distracting 
fancies. 

Dollie  felt  keenly  the  money  troubles  that 
harassed  her  mother  and  threatened  to  make 
them  homeless.  Was  there  nothing  she  could 
do,  she  asked  herself,  to  earn  the  money  with 
which  to  pay  off  the  horrible  mortgage?  She 
might  grow  strawberries  for  the  Northern 
markets.  She  had  heard  there  was  money  to 
be  made  in  that  way.  But  alas!  it  would  take 
a  year  to  raise  berries,  and  the  mortgage  was 
due  in  a  month.  A  lottery  ticket?  Her  heart 
sank,  for  the  suggestion  made  more  real  their 
desperate  circumstances.  Then  her  mind 
reverted  to  the  dragon  candlestick,  and  the 
green-sealed  envelope,  and  her  mother's  bitter 
disappointment,  from  which,  by  a  natural 
transition,  her  thoughts  passed  to  her  Cousin 
Tom.  Poor  Cousin  Tom,  faithful  to  the 
grave!    Would  any  man  ever  love  her  as  well? 


82  aiafcama  &kttti}t$ 


she  questioned  herself,  and  in  the  utterly 
unfathomable,  the  chain  of  her  meditation 
became  broken,  and  she  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  many  things  at  once.  She  wondered  if 
she  was  asleep.  She  tried  to  move,  and  found 
she  could  not  stir.  How  strange  to  be  asleep 
and  yet  thinking  of  so  many  things!  She  was 
sure  that  her  eyes  were  open,  for  did  she  not 
see  the  dragon  candlestick  on  the  mantel, 
where  she  had  placed  it  in  the  afternoon? 
How  queerly  the  little  dragon  was  acting, 
shaking  his  wings  and  winking  his  eyes!  She 
thought  she  ought  to  be  frightened,  but  she 
was  not. 

Suddenly  she  felt  as  if  some  one  were  in  the 
room.  It  was  her  Cousin  Tom.  How  could 
he  be  there,  when  she  knew  he  was  dead?  He 
glided  through  the  moonlight  to  the  bed,  and 
bent  over  and  whispered: 

"  Hie  thee  fast 
And  light  the  Dragon  Candle." 

Then  his  figure  faded  out  through  the  win- 
dow, and  she  saw  nothing  but  the  little  dragon 
waving  his  wings,  dancing  and  beckoning  to 
her  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner.  As 
she  watched  it  she  felt  as  if  she  must  get  out 
of  bed.    Finally,  after  a  mighty  effort,  she 


83 


found  herself  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
with  her  blood  tingling  and  her  heart  beating 
violently.  She  looked  around  nervously. 
The  room  was  perfectly  still,  and  every  object 
was  clearly  outlined,  for  the  moonbeams  shin- 
ing opaquely  through  the  thin  muslin  curtains 
filled  the  place  with  a  soft  and  silvery  light. 
All  was  silent  within,  but  below  in  the  garden 
the  katydids  nicked  the  stillness  with  their 
serrated  notes,  and  whenever  the  night  wind 
stirred  the  curtain,  the  room  was  filled  with 
the  breath  of  flowers. 

Gradually  her  heart  beat  more  calmly,  and 
soon  she  heard  the  town  clock  strike  two. 
She  had  slept  longer  than  she  thought.  She 
looked  toward  the  mantel  where  stood  the 
dragon  candlestick.  The  little  dragon  was 
behaving  quite  decorously  now,  yet  so  vivid 
had  been  her  vision  it  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  the  little  creature  had  not  been  dancing, 
winking,  and  beckoning  to  her  a  few  moments 
before. 

Rising  from  the  side  of  the  bed,  she  ap- 
proached the  mantel,  lifted  the  glass  cover 
from  the  candlestick,  and  placed  the  dragon 
upon  a  table  near  the  window.  For  a  moment 
she  paused,  thrilled  by  a  feeling  that  resembled 
awe   more  than  fear.    Then,  with  beating 


84  &lafiama  i&feetcfiea 


heart,  she  struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the 
candle.  It  did  not  ignite  immediately,  but  by 
and  by,  when  she  came  to  the  end  of  a  second 
match,  the  yellow  wick  began  to  burn  with  a 
thin,  bluish  flame.  By  this  time  Dollie  was 
trembling  so  she  could  scarcely  stand;  she 
seated  herself  where  she  could  watch  the 
candle  as  it  burned. 

She  had  a  singular  feeling.  A  sense  of  ex- 
pectancy possessed  her.  She  felt  sure  that 
something  strange  was  about  to  happen,  yet 
she  had  no  idea  what  it  would  be.  It  was  in 
vain  that  her  reason  told  her  that  her  mother 
was  right.  She  could  not  rid  herself  of  an 
eerie  emotion  of  prescience. 

The  candle  began  to  burn  more  brightly. 
Still  the  flame  remained  azure-tinted,  and  the 
peculiar  radiance,  blending  with  the  opaque 
moonlight  from  the  curtained  window,  illumi- 
nated the  room  with  an  uncanny  light.  As 
the  flame  increased,  a  slight  aromatic  odor 
arose  from  the  candle,  and  it  seemed  to 
Dollie  that  the  little  dragon  smiled. 

Gradually  the  perfume  grew  more  intense 
and  filled  the  entire  apartment.  With  her 
gaze  still  fixed  upon  the  candle,  a  delicious 
drowsiness  stole  over  her,  which  she  knew  was 
caused  by  the  smell  of  the  burning  wax.  In 


GTfje  JBragon  (Eantrlesttcfe  85 


another  moment  all  care,  all  anxiety  had 
passed  from  her.    She  was  asleep. 

When  Dollie  awoke,  the  birds  were  singing 
gayly  in  the  garden  below,  the  sun  was  high  in 
the  heavens,  and  her  mother  was  standing  at 1 
her  side. 

44 Dorothy,  daughter,  why  are  you  sleeping 
in  your  chair?' '  asked  Mrs.  Randall,  with 
amazement  in  her  patient  gaze. 

Dollie  rubbed  her  eyes,  only  half  awake. 

"What  is  it,  mother?' ' 

44 You  did  not  come  to  breakfast,  and  I 
feared  you  were  ill,  and — dear  me,  Dollie," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Randall,  interrupting  herself, 
4  4  what  a  singular  odor  there  is  in  the 
room!" 

This  remark  cleared  the  drowsy  cobwebs 
from  the  girl's  brain,  and  as  the  occurrences 
of  the  night  came  back  to  her  she  looked 
toward  the  table. 

4  4  It  is  the  perfume  of  scented  wax,  mother. 
I  had  a  strange  dream,  and  when  I  woke  in 
the  night  I  lighted  the  dragon  candle.  But 
see,  mother,  how  queer  it  looks!" 

Mrs.  Randall's  eyes  followed  Dollie's  glance, 
and  they  both  approached  the  little  dragon. 

The  candle  was  only  a  third  consumed,  but 


86  aiafiama  Sfeetcf)^ 


the  wick  had  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  was 
a  circular  disk  of  tin  or  some  other  metal. 

"What  can  it  be?"  said  Dollie,  excitedly. 

"Whatever  it  is,  it  is  not  a  candle,"  replied 
her  mother. 

Dollie's  eyes  were  flashing,  and  Mrs.  Ran- 
dall's patient  eagerness  was  pathetic. 

"I  am  going  to  see  what  it  is,"  said  the 
girl,  and  she  began  to  peel  the  wax  from  the 
false  candle,  which  proved  to  be  a  small  cylin- 
drical box,  about  an  inch  in  diameter  and  six 
inches  long. 

With  growing  wonder  the  two  women  passed 
the  strange  box  back  and  forth  between  them, 
and  marveled  over  it  and  its  unknown  con- 
tents, treating  it  much  as  they  would  have 
done  a  strange  letter  in  an  unfamiliar  hand, 
making  divers  surmises  as  to  what  was  within, 
when  an  inappreciable  muscular  effort  would 
instantly  have  opened  it  and  revealed  all. 

The  humor  of  the  situation  occurred  first  to 
Dollie. 

"How  absurd,  mother,  to  be  guessing  what 
is  inside,  when  we  can  open  it  at  once  and 
see!" 

"Wait!"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  with  quivering 
lip.  "Wait  a  moment ;  I  cannot  bear  a  second 
disappointment." 


W$z  HBragon  Olantrlejsttctt  87 


Dollie  looked  at  her  mother,  and  felt  that 
she  had  not  realized  how  much  the  last  few 
months  of  grief  and  distress  had  worn  and 
aged  her. 

"I  was  wrong,  Dorothy.  I  cannot  wait.. 
Open  the  box  at  once!"  she  cried,  wringing 
her  thin,  white  hands  in  a  nervous  tremor. 

Without  an  instant's  further  delay  the  girl 
removed  the  top,  and  inverting  the  box, 
poured  out  upon  the  table  what  seemed  to  be 
a  shower  of  twinkling  dewdrops,  which  laughed 
in  the  morning  light  with  all  the  tints  of  the 
rainbow.    The  effect  was  dazzling. 

"Diamonds,  mother!"  cried  Dollie,  and  in 
the  sudden  revulsion  from  anxiety  and  fear 
the  two  women  fell  sobbing  into  each  other's 
arms. 

After  their  tears  had  subsided  and  they 
came  to  examine  the  glittering  heap,  it  was 
found  to  contain  fifty  large  diamonds  of  the 
purest  water.  Mrs.  Randall  could  not  esti- 
mate their  value,  and  sent  for  her  legal 
adviser. 

When  the  old  lawyer  had  heard  the  story 
and  inspected  the  gems  he  congratulated  Mrs. 
Randall. 

"These  will  put  an  end  to  all  your  financial 
difficulties,"  said  he.    "I  am  not  an  expert  in 


88  Alabama  gbtttfyts 


precious  stones,  but  I  know  these  diamonds 
will  suffice  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  your 
home,  redeem  your  plantation  that  has  been 
sold  for  debt,  and  still  leave  a  handsome  sum 
for  a  safe  investment. 

Then  the  old  man  and  Dollie  fell  to  debat- 
ing the  question  whether  her  cousin  knew  of 
the  existence  of  the  diamonds,  or  if  he  had 
bought  the  dragon  candlestick  on  account  of 
the  legend.  Dollie  turned  and  appealed  to 
her  mother,  but  the  latter  did  not  hear.  She 
had  glided  to  the  window  and  was  gazing  far 
away  where  Tom  Randall's  grave  lay  green  on 
the  hillside. 


PAP'S  MULES 


PAPS  MULES 


THE  Widow  Barbour  stood  on  the  edge  of 
the  throng  which  had  gathered  under  the 
big  oak  in  front  of  the  corner  store,  and 
listened  with  growing  consternation  to  the 
great  news  of  the  impending  battle.  Fortu- 
nately she  had  disposed  of  the  contents  of  her 
basket  before  the  arrival  of  the  stage,  or  her 
butter  and  eggs  would  have  remained  unsold, 
so  great  was  the  excitement  that  convulsed 
the  village.  As  the  widow's  rustic  mind 
gradually  apprehended  the  tale  of  the  ap- 
proaching carnage  which  threatened  Oakville, 
her  thoughts  reverted  to  her  home  at  Hickory 
Hollow,  and  an  irresistible  desire  seized  her 
to  communicate  the  fearful  tidings  to  the 
benighted  denizens  of  that  mountain  hamlet. 
If  there  was  to  be  a  battle  at  Oakville,  and 
blood  was  to  flow  in  the  streets,  Nancy  Bar- 
bour did  not  wish  to  see  it,  so  she  mounted 
old  Sorrel  and  started  at  speed  for  home. 

But  it  was  far  to  Hickory  Hollow,  and  with 
her  heart  beating  time  to  Sorrel's  cantering 

91 


92  aiafiama  Sfcetcfje* 


feet,  Nancy  soon  recognized  the  impossibility 
of  surviving  four  hours  without  telling  the 
news  to  some  one,  so  she  resolved  upon  a 
diversion  up  Blackberry  Lane  for  the  purpose 
of  terrifying  the  family  of  Susan  Cline,  a  crony 
of  hers,  who  had  formerly  dwelt  at  Hickory 
Hollow. 

"  'Tain't  likely  Susan's  heard  the  great 
news,"  murmured  the  widow  as  she  galloped, 
"an*  if  I  don't  tell  somebody  soon  I'll  jes' 
bust." 

The  trees  around  John  Cline's  log  cabin 
were  in  half  leafage,  although  it  was  but 
April,  and  the  foliage  afforded  considerable 
protection  against  the  West  Alabama  sun. 
The  tide  of  war  was  rapidly  engulfing  the 
doomed  Confederacy,  but  there  was  no  hint 
of  conflict  in  Cline's  dooryard.  True,  there 
was  smoke,  but  it  was  not  the  sulphurous 
fumes  of  battle,  smelling  of  burned  powder 
and  carnage,  but  the  incense  of  peace  curling 
gracefully  from  the  fire  about  Susan  Cline's 
soap-pot,  and  redolent  of  the  spicy  scent  of 
pine  knots  and  hickory  boughs.  The  south 
wind  at  intervals  blew  the  pungent  smoke  into 
the  peach-trees  that  hung  over  the  garden 
fence,  and  the  bees  that  were  rifling  the  pink 
blossoms  rose   with   an  indignant  hum,  to 


lap's  Mult* 


93 


return  to  their  toil  when  the  gust  had 
passed. 

Susan  stirred  the  steaming  caldron  medi- 
tatively with  a  long  soap-stick.  Sometimes 
she  made  a  brief  remark  to  guide  the  labors  of 
her  two  daughters,  Betsy  and  Judith,  the  first 
of  whom  bent  over  a  wash-tub,  while  the  other 
churned  a  turn  of  milk;  sometimes  she  looked 
across  the  field  to  where  her  husband  was 
ploughing  with  a  pair  of  bay  mules;  or  her 
glance  fell  tenderly  upon  Johnny,  her  little 
boy  of  ten,  who  made  it  his  duty  to  keep  the 
fire  burning  about  the  pot  of  soap. 

A  messenger  of  ill  to  this  peaceful  scene 
might  well  lament  his  errand.  But  no  com- 
punction visited  Nancy  Barbour's  brain,  as 
she  galloped  up  the  lane.  With  her  brown 
skirt  sailing  in  the  wind  and  her  sunbonnet 
flapping  from  side  to  side,  the  widow's  appear- 
ance was  well  calculated  to  excite  the  anxious 
fear  of  the  little  group  in  the  dooryard. 

t4Lan'  sake!  Nance,  what's  the  matter?"  ex- 
claimed Susan,  as  Nancy  drew  rein  at  the  gate. 

Has  anything  happened  to  my  kin  at  the 
Hollow?" 

With  a  breathlessness,  partly  real,  but 
largely  assumed,  Nancy  shook  her  head 
negatively,  and  asked  for  a  gourd  of  water, 


94  ailafiama  Stfutcfjw 


and  it  was  not  till  after  repeated  solicitation 
that  she  proceeded  to  unfold  her  tale  of  terror. 
Time  was  precious,  yet  the  widow  could  not 
deny  herself  the  enjoyment  of  her  friend's 
suspense. 

"The  day  o'  wrath's  at  han',  Susan  Cline," 
she  finally  began,  "an'  you  pore  critters 
are  washin'  clo'es,  churnin'  milk,  an'  bilin' 
soap!" 

Susan  threw  a  quick,  questioning  glance  at 
Nancy  as  if  she  suspected  her  sanity. 

"Nance,  have  yer  come  gallopin'  up  the 
lane  jest  to  norate  about  Judgment  Day?" 

"No,  Suse,  I've  come  from  Oakville;  the 
Yankees  are  a-comin';  thar's  goin'  to  be  a 
battle  thar,  and  blood's  goin'  to  run  in  the 
streets. " 

"The  Yankee  Raiders  a-comin'  at  last!"  ex- 
claimed Susan.  "Are  yer  shore  the  news  is 
true,  Nance?" 

"Yes,  Suse;  the  news  was  brought  by  stage, 
and  it's  a  sartin'  fact.  The  mayor,  the  alder- 
men, and  the  one-armed  and  the  one-legged 
soldiers  have  helt  a  meetin'  under  the  big  oak 
front  of  Brown's  sto'.  The  soldiers  'How  it's 
no  use  to  put  up  a  fight,  for  thar's  no  able- 
bodied  men  left  to  fight;  but  the  mayor  and 
t'others  say  it  would  be  a  dessgrace  to  sur- 


lap's  Muh& 


95 


render  without  a  gun  pinted  or  a  lick  struck. 
It  was  a  great  meetin',  Suse.  His  honor 
stood  on  a  barrel  and  made  a  grand  speech.' ' 

Nancy  paused  to  enjoy  the  sensation  she 
was  creating.  Meanwhile,  to  brace  her  nerves, 
she  took  out  a  box  of  snuff  from  her  flat  bosom, 
and,  inserting  her  brush,  she  mopped  up  a 
brown  ball  and  put  it  between  her  thin  lips. 

"His  honor's  a  fool,  and  the  old  soldiers  are 
in  the  right,"  said  Susan,  gesticulating  with 
her  soap-stick.  "Thar's  been  enough  blood 
and  tears  shed  in  this  pore  country." 

"Well,"  resumed  Nancy,  "his  honor  out- 
talked  'em  and  carried  the  people  with  him. 
I  tell  yer,  Suse,  thar's  goin'  to  be  a  battle, 
shore.  The  mayor's  organized  a  company, 
and  named  it  the  Oakville  Home  Guard,  and 
appinted  Abner  Wilkins  cap'n.  And  you 
know  the  old  cannon  on  the  bluff  which  used 
to  be  fired  on  the  Fourth  o'  July,  and  ain't 
been  fired  in  nigh  on  to  four  year?  Well, 
they've  drug  it  down  to  the  bridge  and 
loadened  it  with  scrap  iron.  But  thar's  some 
folks  agin'  the  cannon,  sayin'  she's  too  old 
and  rusty  to  shoot;  an'  if  she  do  shoot, 
nobody  knows  which  end's  a-goin'  off." 

A  stronger  gust  shook  the  peach  trees,  driv- 
ing out  the  bees,  shattering  the  blossoms  and 


96  aiafcama  3&tit%t% 


flaking  Judith's  yellow  hair  with  pink.  After 
it  there  came  a  hush  as  if  the  wind  had  sud- 
denly stopped  and  held  its  breath,  like  a 
frightened  child.  Then  it  fled  furtively  down 
the  lane.  One  could  trace  its  feet  by  little 
eddies  of  dust.  Then  came  a  bit  of  April 
cloud,  no  larger  than  one's  hand,  and  floated 
under  the  noontide  sun,  casting  a  shadow 
over  the  little  group. 

Susan  glanced  at  her  frightened  children, 
and  a  feeling  of  resentment  toward  the  bearer 
of  ill  tidings  who  had  alarmed  them  rose  in 
her  heart. 

4  4 We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  Nance,  for 
comin,  out  of  yer  way  to  bring  us  bad  news, 
but  we're  not  beholden  to  you  for  namin'  us 
pore  critters  jes'  because  we  are  washin'  our 
clo'es  and  bilin'  our  soap.  Livin'  or  dead,  a 
body  needs  soap  and  clean  clo'es.  Further- 
moah,  if  the  Raiders  be  a-comin',  we  can't 
hender  'em." 

Susan's  affected  calmness  vexed  Nancy, 
who  vaguely  felt  herself  defrauded.  She  had 
expected  more  of  a  panic. 

"I'm  powerful  glad  to  see  you  so  reesigned, 
Suse,  for  it's  a  Christian's  duty.  Howsomever, 
in  Oakville  they  'llowed  the  Raiders  'ud  skin 
the  county,  and  thar  wouldn't  be  a  four-legged 


lap's  JWules 


97 


critter  left  to  milk  or  plough.  What  are  you- 
uns  goin'  to  do  when  yer  mules  is  gone?" 

"It  would  be  a  hard  case  to  lose  our  mules, 
for  they  are  our  main  support,  Nance,  but  the 
ground's  broke  and  planted,  and  we  could 
make  out  to  work  it  with  a  hoe." 

Having  parried  Nancy's  final  effort  to  create 
dismay,  Susan  ordered  her  little  flock  back  to 
their  labors;  and  the  widow,  fearing  to  be 
forestalled  as  a  messenger  of  ill  to  the  dwell- 
ers on  Little  Creek,  declined  Susan's  invita- 
tion to  dinner,  and  giving  Sorrel  a  blow  with 
her  switch,  departed  at  a  brisk  pace  for  Hick- 
ory Hollow. 

When  Nancy's  lank  figure  had  disappeared 
down  the  lane,  a  sigh  from  his  mother  filled 
Johnny's  face  with  gloom. 

44 Mammy,  do  yer  reckin'  the  Yanks'll  take 
pap's  mules?"  asked  the  little  boy,  anxiously. 

44I  don't  know,  son;  they  mought,  and  then 
agin  they  moughtn't.  But  go  tell  yer  pap  to 
come  to  the  house,  and  take  Tige  with  you; 
I'm  feard  he'll  git  scalted  with  this  soap." 

44Don't  you  be  skeered,  sonny,"  said  Cline, 
as  he  saw  a  tear  roll  down  the  little  boy's  thin 
cheeks  while  he  helped  to  ungear  the  mules. 

44I  ain't  feard  o'  nothin',  pap.  But  Mis' 
Barbour  she  'llowed  as  how  the  Yanks  'ud 


98  aiafiama  Stutcfcea 


sholy  carry  off  our  mules,  and  since  I  heard 
that  word  seems  like  I  love  Cindy  and  Beck 
more'n  anything  on  the  place.  Tige  he  ain't 
nowhar  now." 

4 'Well,  son,  don't  borry  trouble;  wait  till 
the  Raiders  are  here  'fore  you  take  to 
grievin'. " 

Johnny  was  not  comforted.  He  pulled 
down  Cindy's  head  by  her  long  ears  and  laid 
his  cheek  against  the  mule's  muzzle. 

4<I  tell  yer,  pap,  I  couldn't  give  up  Beck 
and  Cindy  nohow.  They've  been  here  ever 
since  I  was  born.  I've  rid  'em  to  the  creek 
to  drink.  I've  rid  'em  to  mill,  and  I've  rid 
'em  ever'whar.  Pap,  Beck  and  Cindy  ain't 
no  young  mules;  both  of  'em's  seen  their  best 
days.  They  couldn't  stand  it  to  pull  cannon 
and  sich  like,  day  and  night.  More'n  that, 
them  Yanks  ain't  usen'  to  mules,  and  don't 
know  the  ways  o'  mules.  Now  thar's  Cindy, 
she'd  jes'  as  soon  kick  a  stranger  as  not,  and 
she'd  be  shore  to  kick  them  Yanks,  and  they 
mought  shoot  her.  I  tell  yer,  pap,  lesscr'n 
two  days  thar'd  be  a  dead  Yank  or  a  dead 
mule,  and  I'm  a-feard  it  mought  be  Cindy." 

44 Do  make  haste  and  come  to  bed,  Bet," 
said  Judith,  impatiently,  that  night  in  the 
small  back  bedroom  where  the  children  slept. 


$ap'a  Mult* 


99 


"Mammy's  shet  me  up,  and  shet  me  up  the 
holen  joren  day  since  Mis'  Barbour  left,  till  I 
feel  jest  like  a  grain  o'  hot  corn  'fore  it  pops." 

"It's  all  your  fault,  Jude,"  replied  Betsy, 
blowing  out  the  tallow  dip  and  lying  down. 
"If  you  hadn't  tuned  up  to  cry  I  wouldn't  'a 
cried,  and  mam  wouldn't  'a  got  mad." 

"But  jest  think,  Bet,  maybe  the  Yanks'll 
come  fore  day,  and  thar's  pap  and  mam  gone 
to  bed  same  as  common.  Seems  like  we-uns 
ought  to  be  sittin'  up  singing  hymes,  or  doin' 
some'h'n  different  to  what  we  do  every  night. " 

"Lan'  sake,  Jude !  I  wouldn't  sing  a  hyme  in 
the  dead  o'  night  for  nothin'  you  could  give 
me." 

"Wouldn't  yer  sing  a  hyme  for  that  string  o' 
yaller  beads  in  Brown's  sto'?" 

"No!  I  wouldn't  sing  a  lonesome  hyme  in 
the  dead  o'  night  for  nothin'  and  nobody. 
It  'ud  make  me  feel  like  we  was  a  watchin' 
with  a  dead  corpse." 

Judith  fell  back,  covered  her  head  with  the 
quilt,  and  exclaimed  in  half-smothered  tones 
of  horror:  "Bet,  if  you  say  ary  'nother  word 
about  a  dead  corpse,  I  tell  you  pint  blank, 
I'll  holler  jest  as  loud  as  I  can." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Judith,  half  suffo- 
cated, uncovered  her  head  and  peered  around 


ioo  aiafiama  Stutcfjes 


the  room,  when,  her  eyes  falling  on  the  little 
trundle-bed  in  the  corner  where  Johnny  lay, 
she  whispered: 

"Sis,  is  Johnny  asleep?" 

"Yes,  don't  wake  him,"  drawled  Betsy, 
drowsily. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  wake  him.  If  he  was 
asleep  I  was  goin'  to  say,  s'posin' — "  The 
girl  paused  suddenly  as  if  overcome  by  the 
magnitude  of  the  supposition. 

"S'posin'  what?"  asked  Betsy,  turning  in 
the  bed  with  increased  interest. 

"S'posin' — s'posin'  our  Johnny  was  to  run 
off  with  pap's  mules  unbeknownst  down  to 
Bearheaven  swamp  and  save  'em  from  the 
Raiders?" 

"Shucks!  Johnny's  too  little,"  replied  the 
prosaic  Betsy,  who  straightway  turned  over 
and  went  to  sleep;  and  Judith,  deprived  of  a 
listener,  soon  followed  her  sister's  example 
and  was  wrapped  in  slumber. 

But  the  little  tow-headed  boy  in  the  trundle- 
bed  remained  awake.  His  sisters  had  been 
mistaken  in  thinking  him  asleep.  Still  wide 
awake  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  pencil 
of  moonlight  that  slanted  through  the  window, 
dimly  illuminating  the  room,  his  childish 
imagination,  fed  upon  the  piny-woods  super- 


$apfs  J&ulea  101 


stitions,  transformed  the  shaft  of  light  into 
the  apparition  of  a  long  white  hand  beckoning 
him  to  the  world  outside.  But  the  fancy 
faded  when  he  heard  Judith's  wild  supposition, 
and  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  had  not 
before  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  save  the 
mules  which  he  loved  so  well  and  which  he  knew 
were  so  necessary  to  the  support  of  the  fam- 
ily. The  idea,  carelessly  sown  by  Judith, 
grew  in  his  little  brain  like  a  grain  of  mustard- 
seed.  He  knew  Bearheaven  swamp  well,  and 
he  felt  certain  that  he  could  run  the  mules  off 
into  its  recesses  and  keep  them  there  safe 
till  the  Raiders  had*  left  Oakville.  He  won- 
dered that  the  plan  had  not  occurred  to  him 
at  once.  As  soon  as  his  sisters  were  asleep 
he  would  start.  While  he  lay  quiet  in  bed 
thus  maturing  his  scheme,  the  clock  in  his 
mother's  room  struck  twelve,  and  the  slow, 
regular  breathing  of  his  sisters  told  him  that 
they  were  both  in  deep  slumber. 

Rising  cautiously  from  the  trundle-bed,  and 
slipping  on  his  clothes,  he  tiptoed  to  the  win- 
dow, caught  the  sill  with  both  hands,  gave  a 
spring,  wriggled  through  the  opening,  and 
dropped  lightly  to  the  ground. 

Safe  outside,  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  he  must  take  something  along  to  eat. 


io2  aiafcama  Sfcetcf)** 


The  mules  could  graze  on  the  young  cane  that 
grew  abundantly  in  the  swamp.  Congratulat- 
ing himself  on  the  happy  thought,  he  glided 
through  the  open  hallway  to  the  pine  cupboard 
to  see  what  it  contained.  In  it  was  a  yellow 
dish  heaped  with  cold  boiled  bacon,  collards, 
and  corn-pone.  On  the  next  shelf  was  a  cup  of 
sorghum  molasses  and  a  pitcher  of  butter-milk. 

Taking  a  cottonade  bag  from  a  nail  and 
removing  the  garden-seed  it  held,  he  whispered 
to  himself:  "I  can  carry  the  bread  and  meat 
in  this  seed  bag  o'  pap's;  and  I  can  make  out 
to  take  them  merlasses  in  a  bottle.  But  these 
here  collards  that's  wet  and  cold,  this  is  the 
onliest  way  they  can  be  carried,' '  said  he, 
filling  his  mouth  with  them,  and  giving  voice 
to  a  suppressed  laugh.  "In  the  mornin'  when 
mammy  finds  I'm  gone,  and  the  collards  gone, 
too,  she'll  know  I  couldn't  a-carried  'em  no 
other  way,  and  she'll  be  powerful  glad  I  took 
a  bite  o'  somethin'  'fore  I  lef." 

Carefully  lifting  the  pitcher  of  buttermilk  he 
took  a  drink,  which  seemed  to  go  the  wrong 
way. 

"It's  quare;  when  I  think  about  leavin' 
mam  I  begin  to  choke." 

Replacing  the  pitcher  on  the  shelf,  he 
turned  his  head. 


IPap's  Hftules  103 


"  Jest  listen  at  pap  snorin' !  He's  clean  for- 
got about  them  Yanks." 

Here,  with  a  scratch  and  a  yawn,  Tige  rose 
from  the  floor  and  came  forward  wagging  his 
tail. 

4 4 Tige,  you  must  come,  too,  and  he'p  save 
pap's  mules,"  said  Johnny,  patting  the  dog  on 
the  head.  Tige  licked  the  boy's  hand  and 
followed  him  to  the  stable. 

When  all  was  ready  for  the  flight,  mounted 
on  Cindy  and  leading  Beck,  Johnny  paused  in 
the  lane  for  a  parting  look  at  the  little  cabin. 
The  full  moon  was  still  high  in  the  heavens, 
and  its  rays,  sifting  through  the  half-grown 
foliage  of  the  oaks,  dappled  the  rough  board 
roof  of  the  cabin  with  the  shadow  of  baby 
leaves,  which  flickered  and  danced  as  the 
night  wind  blew.  The  soft  radiance  fell  also 
on  the  pink  blossoming  peach-trees,  bleaching 
the  dewy  flowers  till  they  were  white  and 
glistening.  Whatever  the  moonbeams  touched 
they  beautified  with  silent  peace. 

Suddenly  from  the  Oakville  way  came  a 
mighty  sound — boom — 00m — 00m — 000m — 
that  shook  the  very  ground,  and  rolled  away 
to  the  wilds  of  Bearheaven  swamp,  and  rever- 
berated through  the  distant  hills  as  far  as 
Hickory  Hollow. 


io4  aUafcama  Sketches 


Johnny  delayed  no  longer.  Followed  by 
Tige,  barking  furiously,  he  was  well  on  his 
way  to  the  morasses  of  Bearheaven  when  the 
echoes  died  away.  The  inmates  of  the  cabin 
were  speedily  frightened  out  of  their  slum- 
bers. 

44 John,  John!  wake  up,  thar's  the  cannon! 
The  Raiders  are  come  to  Oakville,,,  said 
Susan,  excitedly,  and  at  the  same  moment  two 
screams  rang  from  the  back  room,  and  the 
girls  bounded  in.  But  it  was  not  till  the 
alarmed  family  had  dressed  themselves  that 
Johnny  was  missed. 

44Whar's  the  boy?"  Susan  exclaimed  to  the 
frightened  girls.  Their  bewildered  faces  testi- 
fying to  their  ignorance  of  their  brother's 
whereabouts,  the  anxious  mother  hastened  to 
the  door  and  called:  44 Johnny,  Johnny!  come 
to  yer  mam,  sonny;  she  wants  you." 

Meanwhile  from  Oakville  there  came  a  con- 
fused sound  of  human  voices  and  barking 
dogs,  while  many  little  lights  began  to  appear, 
some  of  which  were  stationary,  while  others 
moved  about  like  fireflies,  appearing  and  dis- 
appearing as  their  rays  were  intercepted  by 
intervening  objects. 

In  the  yard  Susan  met  her  husband  return- 
ing from  the  stable. 


lapf0  MultB  105 


"Johnny  can't  be  found,"  she  said,  "and 
I'm  a-feared  he's  taken  Tige  and  gone  to 
Oakville." 

"The  mules  are  gone,  too,"  answered  John. 

"Then  maybe  the  mules  have  broke  out,  and 
Johnny's  gone  to  fetch  'em." 

"No,  Susan,  the  bridle  and  saddle  are 
missin',  too,  and  the  gate's  latched." 

"Then,"  said  the  distressed  mother, 
"Johnny's  run  off  with  the  mules.  He  was 
standin'  by  when  Nancy  Barbour  'llowed  the 
Raiders  would  carry  'em  off.  Yes,  he's  run 
the  mules  off  to  Hickory  Hollow  to  save  'em; 
and,  oh,  John,  he  may  be  shot  and  killed  on 
the  road,  like  my  other  boy  in  Virginia,  and 
I'll  never  see  him  agin!"  and  dropping  into  a 
chair,  Susan  Cline  buried  her  face  in  her 
apron. 

***** 

Oakville  had  fallen!  But  the  old  town  had 
not  surrendered  without  a  blow,  and  munici- 
pal honor  remained  spotless.  The  city  fathers 
felt  a  thrill  of  pride  even  in  defeat. 

Everything  had  gone  off  in  style — even  the 
old  rusty  cannon.  The  load  of  scrap-iron  had 
passed  out  at  the  proper  end,  thus  belying  the 
predictions  of  the  croakers.  Yet,  for  some 
reason  (perhaps  from  inaccuracy  of  aim,  per- 


io6  aiafiama  SSfeetcfje^ 


haps  from  the  queer  shapes  of  the  projec- 
tiles— old  nails,  corkscrews,  sardine-boxes, 
etc.)  the  greater  part  of  the  load  was  found 
next  day  sticking  in  the  sides  and  rafters  of 
the  bridge. 

Jack  Green,  old  Brown's  fifteen-year-old 
red-headed  clerk,  fired  the  cannon.  Only  one 
man  was  needed  to  man  the  gun,  for  there  was 
not  enough  powder  for  a  second  load.  Jack 
was  a  proud  boy.  As  the  man  who  fired  the 
cannon  on  the  night  of  the  Raid,  his  fame  in 
Oakville  would  be  eternal.  It  was  not  an 
ordinary  cannon;  Jack  wished  the  tact  kept 
in  mind.  It  was  a  gun  that  half  the  town 
regarded  as  certain  to  bring  death  to  the  man 
who  applied  the  match. 

The  old  mayor  was  equally  proud.  What 
was  a  war  governor  beside  a  raid  mayor!  To 
repulse  the  enemy  had  been  beyond  his  expec- 
tation; and  when  it  was  discovered  at  day- 
light that  they  were  fifteen  hundred  strong, 
while  the  Home  Guard  were  but  fifty,  his  honor 
remarked  to  a  friend  that  no  braver  defense 
was  recorded  in  the  pages  of  history. 

When  Susan  rallied  from  the  blow  of 
Johnny's  flight,  the  rigor  of  household  dis- 
cipline increased  rather  than  diminished,  and 
in  spite  of  her  discomposure,  she  busied  her- 


lap's  JBlules  107 


self  with  her  usual  duties,  and  set  the  girls 
each  a  large  task  of  ironing. 

"I  know  it'll  be  as  it  always  is,"  said 
Judith,  seizing  the  occasion  of  her  mother's 
morning  visit  to  the  hen-house;  "we'll  be  the 
last  fambly  the  Raiders  come  to." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  anybody's  pinin'  for 
'em,"  replied  her  sister. 

"Bet,  yer  don't  understand!"  exclaimed 
Judith,  fretfully,  dropping  her  iron  on  the 
rest  with  a  loud  clink.  "It's  this  way:  I 
didn't  want  the  Yanks  to  come,  but  since  they 
are  come,  I  don't  want  to  be  the  last  human 
bein'  in  Oak  County  to  set  eyes  on  'em. 
I  think  it's  a  dessgrace  to  be  the  last 
about  everything,  and  I  don't  want  folks  to 
be  a-pityin'  we-uns  and  sayin'  the  Yanks 
came  to  Oakville  and  went  away,  and  them 
pore  Clines  in  Blackberry  Lane  never  seed  a 
Yank." 

Judith  took  up  her  iron  again,  but  finding  it 
had  grown  cold,  she  replaced  it  before  the 
bright  bed  of  embers  in  the  fireplace,  and  lift- 
ing another,  rubbed  it  on  a  roll  of  rags  to  free 
it  of  ashes.  Meantime  a  loud  cackling  in  the 
hen-house  gave  token  that  old  Speckle  and 
Susan  were  not  of  one  mind  in  the  matter  of 
nest-building;  and  the  din  was  much  increased 


io8  aiafiama  gbttcfytz 


when  the  red  rooster  lifted  his  voice  in  sym- 
pathy with  Speckle's  domestic  woes. 

"Bet, 99  said  Judith,  solemnly,  after  a  long 
pause,  "thar's  some'h'n  on  my  mind,  and  it's 
a-swellin'  and  a-swellin'  like  bread  sponge. 
If  I  don't  tell  it  soon,  it'll  choke  me." 

"Then  you'd  better  tell  it  'fore  mam  comes 
back,"  responded  her  phlegmatic  sister. 

Judith  put  down  her  iron. 

"It's  this,  sis.  Mam  'Hows  that  Johnny's 
run  the  mules  off  to  Hickory  Hollow,  but 
that's  not  my  b'lief.  I  'How  Johnny's  many 
miles  from  the  Hollow.  He'd  never  'a'  run  off 
nohow  if  somebody  hadn't  a-put  the  notion  in 
his  head." 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  misty,  and  her  voice 
trembled.  "Oh,  sis,  it's  all  my  doin's. 
Johnny  warn't  asleep  last  night  when  I  was 
s'posin'.  He  ain't  gone  to  Hickory  Hollow; 
he's  down  in  Bearheaven  swamp,  an'  if  the 
Yanks  find  him  and  chase  him,  takin'  him  to 
be  a  man  in  the  bresh  and  briers,  he'll  chance 
it  to  be  shot  'fore  he'd  give  up  ary  one  o' 
them  mules;  an'  if  anything  was  to  happen  to 
our  Johnny  it  would  break  my  heart,  it  sholy 
would. " 

Judith  gazed  at  her  sister  tearfully.  The 
latter  thought  a  moment. 


$ap'a  JBtuU*  109 


"Oughtn't  pap  and  mam  to  know  it?" 

"No;  what's  the  use  o'  tellin'  'em?  Pap 
won't  leave  us  by  our  lone  selves,  and  go  look 
j  for  Johnny;  and  mam  would  give  me  a  tongue 
lashin'  for  puttin'  notions  in  Johnny's  head." 

With  this  Judith  walked  to  the  window,  and 
as  she  did  so  she  gave  a  cry. 

Approaching  the  cabin  from  Oakville  was  a 
squad  of  blue-coated  cavalry.  The  thick  dust 
rolling  in  dark  billows  around  the  knees  of 
the  horses,  passed  into  a  gray  cloud  which 
wrapped  its  sullen  garments  about  the  April 
breeze,  and  floated  down  the  zigzag  fence, 
stifling  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  sassafras 
blossoms,  and  blinding  the  startled  blue  eyes 
of  the  wild  violets. 

The  troop  was  met  at  the  gate  by  John, 
with  Susan  and  the  girls  behind  him.  A  brief 
dialogue  ensued,  in  the  course  of  which  Cline 
answered  truthfully  the  inquiries  in  regard  to 
his  stock,  telling  the  story  of  Johnny's  flight 
in  the  night  with  the  mules,  and  his  mother's 
consequent  anxiety.  But  the  account  did  not 
satisfy  the  officer  in  charge,  and  he  ordered 
the  stable  to  be  searched.  The  search  prov- 
ing fruitless,  he  began  to  question  Cline  afresh, 
when  Susan  stepped  forward:  "My  husband's 
given  yer  a  true  word,  sir.    We  had  two 


i  to  aiafiama  Sfcetcfjei* 


mules,  but  our  little  boy,  our  onliest  boy — his 
brother  was  killed  in  Virginia — my  boy  he's 
run  off  with  the  mules,  and  we  don't  know 
whar  he  is.  We  'How  he's  gone  up  in  the  hills 
whar  we  use  to  live,  but  we  ain't  certain." 

Susan  paused  and  grasped  the  gate-post 
nervously.  4  4  Mr.  Officer,  if  you  run  acrost  a 
little  sandy-haired  boy  with  two  bay  mules 
and  a  yaller  dog,  please  be  merciful  to  'em. 
My  Johnny's  little  and  slim,  but  he's  gritty, 
and  he'll  chance  it  to  be  shot  sooner  than  give 
up  ary  one  of  them  mules." 

The  squad  rode  off  fifty  yards  and  halted, 
anxiously  watched  by  the  little  group  at  the 
gate.  The  commander  was  inclined  to  doubt 
the  existence  of  the  small  boy.  Some  one  had 
hidden  the  mules,  it  was  evident,  and  where 
were  they  more  likely  to  be  than  in  the  swamp 
to  the  south,  the  nearest  cover  offering  a 
chance  of  successful  concealment.  With  the 
arrival  of  this  decision  the  troop  wheeled  and 
rode  rapidly  down  the  winding  lane  leading  to 
Bearheaven  swamp. 

"Shet  up!"  said  Susan  to  Judith,  who  on 
the  departure  of  the  soldiers  had  begun  to 
sob.    "Shet  right  up  and  go  to  your  ironin'." 

With  an  effort  the  girl  controlled  herself 
and  faced  her  mother. 


lap's  JBtules  in 


"I  ain't  cryin'  for  nothin,'  and  I  won't  be 
shet  up  no  longer.  You  think  I'm  takin'  the 
high-sterics,  but  I  ain't;  it's  grief.  You  an' 
pap  'How  that  Johnny's  gone  to  Hickory 
Hollow,  but  yer  'How  wrong.  Johnny  an' 
them  mules  are  down  yonder  in  Bearheaven, 
an'  them  Yanks  are  on  his  track  to  hunt  him, 
like  he  was  a  wild  beast.  But  thar  ain't  no 
time  to  talk.  I  can't  stand  it  to  stay  here  no 
longer.    I'm  a-goin'  to  Johnny." 

She  darted  from  the  cabin.  Bareheaded 
across  the  stable-yard  she  fled.  Over  the 
fence,  scarcely  seeming  to  touch  it,  on  in  a 
diagonal  direction  toward  a  thick  growth  of 
young  pines  she  flew.  The  Raiders  had  a  few 
moments'  start  of  her,  but  their  course  lay 
along  the  winding  lane,  and  Judith  knew  that 
by  taking  short  cuts  through  thicket,  field, 
and  wood,  she  could  shorten  the  distance  a 
third.  Every  foot  of  ground  was  as  well 
known  to  her  as  to  the  cotton-tailed  rabbit 
that  jumped  up  before  her,  or  the  startled 
quail  that  rose  whizzing  from  the  broom- 
sedge.  Fortunately  she  was  clad  in  brown 
homespun,  whose  hue  was  similar  to  that  of 
the  tree-trunks,  and  her  hair  to  the  yellow 
tint  of  last  year's  broom-sedge  which  surged 
about  her  as  she  ran. 


1 12  aiafiama  &tutcf)e0 


At  intervals  she  saw  between  the  pines  and 
over  the  sedge  the  heads  of  the  cavalrymen. 
They  were  riding  at  full  speed  along  the 
curving  road.  As  she  reached  a  rise  in  the 
field  a  jay-bird  flew  up,  and  lit  upon  a  per- 
simmon tree  and  began  to  summon  his  kindred 
with  a  shrill  note.  Fearing  discovery,  the  girl 
crouched  in  the  sedge,  and  the  downy  seed, 
floating  about  her,  clung  to  her  gown  and 
frosted  her  hair.  Above  her  thin,  flushed 
cheeks  her  dark-blue  eyes  gleamed  like  bits 
of  polished  steel.  She  had  stooped  just  in 
time,  for  at  the  cry  of  the  bird  the  men 
looked  toward  her.  She  saw  with  beating 
heart  that  she  had  escaped  their  gaze,  for  the 
squad  rode  on. 

Judith  sprang  up  and  sped  down  the  incline. 
Before  her  rose  a  wood,  the  southern  boun- 
dary of  the  sedge  field.  Once  in  this  cover  her 
flight  could  not  be  seen  from  the  road.  She 
rushed  through  the  blackberry  briers,  caught 
the  top  rail  of  the  fence  with  both  hands,  and 
swung  over  it  like  a  boy. 

The  bare  feet  of  the  cracker  girl  were  swift, 
but  her  brain  went  faster.  She  believed  that 
she  knew  the  place  where  the  boy  had  hidden 
himself  and  the  mules.  About  a  mile  farther 
to  the  right  of  the  wood,  in  the  deepest  part  of 


lap's  Mult*  113 


the  swamp,  was  a  small  knoll  which  rose 
above  the  encircling  morass  like  a  tiny  island. 
It  was  thickly  fringed  with  cane,  and  further 
concealed  from  view  by  the  branches  of  a 
large  tree  which  had  been  felled  by  some 
opossum-hunter.  Johnny  and  she  had  dis- 
covered the  spot  while  looking  for  a  strayed 
cow. 

Down  through  the  wood  she  ran  like  a 
young  doe.  The  cool  gloom  was  grateful  to 
her  heated  face,  but  she  did  not  smell  the 
fragrance  of  the  wild  honeysuckles  nor  of  the 
yellow  jasmine  bells  that  brushed  her  brow. 
Reaching  the  morass,  overshadowed  by  great 
gum  and  cypress  trees  and  dotted  with  tufts  of 
water-grass,  she  leaped  from  hillock  to  hillock 
over  the  black  mud.  Here  and  there  on  the 
leaf-strewn  pools  rose  bubbles  of  marsh  gas 
that  broke  as  her  light  steps  shook  the  clumps 
of  quaggy  grass  and  cane  roots. 

She  stopped  a  moment  to  listen.  She  heard 
nothing  but  the  hammering  of  a  log-cock  on  a 
dead  gum-tree,  and  the  tiny  bark  of  a  squir- 
rel. Her  feet  were  covered  with  mud  above 
the  ankles,  and  her  breathing  was  quick ;  but 
the  bourne  was  almost  gained. 

Continuing  her  flight  she  came  to  one  of  the 
creeks   which  wound   through   the  swamp. 


H4  aiaimma  S>ftrtdj«s 


Like  most  swamp  streams,  though  narrow,  it 
was  deep.  Too  wide  to  be  leaped,  too  full  of 
dead  sticks  and  branches  to  be  swum,  cross- 
ing seemed  well-nigh  impossible. 

Judith  looked  in  vain  along  the  creek  for  a 
fallen  tree  that  might  offer  a  precarious 
bridge.  Upward  her  despairing  glance  was 
met  by  a  muscadine  which  hung  like  a  great 
green  chandelier  over  the  dark  water.  Taking 
a  forked  stick,  she  leaned  over  the  creek  and 
drew  the  vine  toward  her.  Pulling  stoutly  to 
test  the  strength  of  its  attachment  to  the 
boughs  above,  she  ran  back  a  few  steps  to  gain 
momentum,  then  swung  like  a  pendulum  full 
twenty  feet  over  the  water,  and  dropped 
lightly  on  the  other  side. 

If  the  boy  were  not  there!  Her  step  be- 
came unsteady,  and  her  muddy,  brier-torn 
ankles  trembled. 

4 4 Johnny!  Johnny !M  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
husky  whisper. 

She  heard  a  swishing  sound,  then  the  foliage 
swayed,  and  Johnny  with  Tige  at  his  side 
appeared  through  the  parting  reeds. 

* 4 Golly,  Jude,  is  that  you?  Me  and  Tige 
took  yer  for  a  swamp  rabbit  or  some  other 
wild  critter  a-lopin'  through  the  swamp. 
Have  the  Yanks  come  to  pap's  house?" 


IPap'a  Mults  115 


44 Yes,  they've  been  thar  a-lookin'  for  horses 
and  mules,  and  they've  took  the  road  to 
Bearheaven.  I  'llowed  you'd  be  here  with 
them  two  mules,  and  I've  come  to  tell  yer  the 
Yanks  are  on  yer  track." 

Johnny's  eyes  gleamed. 

"Let  'em  come!  Them  Raiders  can't  find 
us  lessern  they  had  hound  dogs." 

The  flexile  cane  closed  behind  them,  and 
the  mules  were  discovered,  tethered  and 
browsing  contentedly  on  the  young  cane. 

Seated  on  the  stump  of  the  gum-tree  which 
had  been  the  ill-starred  opossum's  abode, 
Judith  rendered  Johnny  a  terse  account  of 
recent  events.  The  boy  listened  attentively. 
But  Tige,  who  had  greeted  Judith  with  much 
tail-wagging,  began  to  leap  upon  her  and  lick 
her  hands  as  if  he  thought  Johnny  had  not 
greeted  her  with  sufficient  enthusiasm.  From 
leaps  to  barks  was  a  natural  canine  transition. 

"Shet  up,  Tige!"  said  Johnny,  springing  to 
his  feet  and  seizing  the  dog  by  the  nape  of 
the  neck;  but  Tige  tore  loose  and  circled 
about  Judith  with  still  louder  barks.  She 
made  an  unsuccessful  spring  at  one  of  his  hind 
legs,  which  only  added  to  his  glee. 

"Shet  up,  you  yaller  fool!"  repeated  the 
boy,  clinching  his  teeth  and  seizing  a  stout 


n6  aiatiama  jjftetcfjei* 


sassafras  switch  on  which  he  had  been  whit- 
tling to  pass  the  time  away. 

Tige  easily  eluded  Johnny's  lunges.  The 
dog  had  not  enjoyed  himself  so  much  in  many 
a  day,  and  it  was  not  till  Judith,  armed  with 
another  switch,  had  turned  Tige's  flank,  that 
Johnny  succeeded  in  giving  the  dog  a  smart 
blow  that  sent  him  yelping  into  the  cane- 
brake. 

Tige  was  finally  silenced.  But  to  celebrate 
the  event,  the  mule  Cindy  raised  her  head, 
turned  back  her  long  ears,  and  gave  voice  to 
a  sonorous  bray  that  rang  through  the  swamp 
and  floated  along  the  distant  river  bank  in 
slowly  expiring  echoes.  Johnny  seized  Cindy 
by  the  muzzle  to  prevent  a  repetition  of  the 
untimely  noise,  and  Judith,  fearing  the  con- 
tagion of  a  bad  example,  took  the  other  mule 
in  charge. 

But  the  precautions  were  useless;  the  mis- 
chief was  done.  From  the  other  bank  of  the 
winding  creek  came  a  sound  of  crackling 
twigs,  and  horses'  feet  tramping  the  mud. 

"  Johnny,  it's  the  Yanks!"  exclaimed  Judith, 
with  a  look  of  despair. 

In  two  minutes  more  the  little  swamp  island 
would  be  surrounded  and  they  would  be 
caught  like  quail  in  a  net. 


lap's  ffluhz  117 


"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  gritting  his  teeth, 
"but  the  mules  ain't  thurn  yet." 

A  loud  splashing  told  that  the  cavalrymen 
were  crossing  the  creek,  and  Tige  began 
again  to  bark. 

"Don't  stop  to  saddle.  If  Tige  shets  up 
maybe  we  can  dodge  'em,  and  swim  the  river," 
said  Johnny. 

He  leaped  on  Cindy,  Judith  on  Beck. 

Just  as  they  broke  through  the  fringe  of 
cane  on  the  south  bank  of  the  knoll,  a  loud 
"Halt!"  rang  from  the  thick  undergrowth 
fifty  yards  away.  They  were  heard  by  their 
pursuers,  but  not  seen.  Johnny  made  for  the 
laurel  bush  and  cane  along  the  winding  creek. 
The  mules,  though  old,  were  still  active  and 
sure-footed,  and  they  were  fresher  than  the 
Federal  horses. 

"Halt!"  came  again  from  the  rear.  Still 
hidden  by  the  cane  and  laurel,  the  boy  and 
girl  turned  a  bend  in  the  water-course. 

"Fire!"  and  a  shower  of  bullets  whizzed 
through  the  shrub,  cutting  leaves  and  twigs 
on  every  hand.  A  bit  of  bark  grazed  Johnny's 
ear. 

"Are  yer  hit,  Jude?"  cried  the  boy  over  his 
shoulder. 

"No,  are  you?" 


1 18  aiafiama  S&etcfie* 


"No,  but  I  can  see  blood  on  Cindy's  ear." 

Still  keeping  to  cover,  they  made  turn  after 
turn,  but  sound  each  time  betrayed  them,  and 
they  failed  to  increase  the  distance  much  from 
their  pursuers.  Worse,  the  men  were  widen- 
ing the  line  of  pursuit.  The  boy's  tactics 
were  discovered.  He  thought  of  another 
plan,  gave  the  mule  a  sharp  blow  and  spurted 
to  the  right. 

A  few  hundred  yards  away  was  a  clearing, 
a  small  field  formerly  cultivated,  but  now 
reverting  to  wilderness.  Could  ground  be 
gained  on  the  wild  ride  to  this  open  place,  its 
firmer  footing  and  freedom  from  trees  might 
enable  them  to  increase  the  space  so  greatly 
that  when  they  re-entered  the  swamp  on  the 
farther  side,  their  flight  could  not  be  heard. 
They  were  trailed,  not  by  the  eye,  but  by  the 
ear. 

"The  clearin'!"  hissed  the  boy. 
"The  clearin'?"  gasped  Judith. 
"Yes,  gain  on  'em  thar;  dodge  'em  t'other 
side." 

On,  on  they  went  with  heads  bent  low.  A 
black-jack  bough  combed  Judith's  streaming 
hair,  and  would  have  dragged  her  from  the 
mule,  but  she  grasped  its  bristling  mane.  A 
low  beech  limb  scraped  Johnny's  back,  burst- 


lap's  Joules  119 


ing  his  "gallus, "  and  tearing  his  shirt  from 
neck  to  waist.  But  the  clearing  was  gained 
and  the  pursuers  distanced.  Half  a  minute 
later  the  squad  broke  cover,  to  see  pap's  mules 
and  their  youthful  riders  dart  like  arrows  into 
the  farther  swamp  safe! 

"Halt!"  rang  the  command;  this  time  ad- 
dressed to  the  squad. 

"Two  cracker  children  and  mules !  I  thought 
there  were  ten  Rebels  well  mounted,"  said  the 
officer,  and  in  deep  disgust  the  troop  tracked 
their  own  trail  back  to  the  road. 

The  Raid  had  passed  like  a  summer  storm. 
Three  days  and  nights  of  sun  and  dew  had 
broadened  the  tender  leaves  above  John 
Cline's  cabin,  and  painted  them  a  deeper 
green,  as  a  thin  woman  clothed  in  brown 
homespun  walked  wearily  up  Blackberry  Lane. 

The  Widow  Barbour  was  tired,  but  when  she 
drew  near  Susan's  home,  the  limp  folds  of  her 
draggled  gown  grew  crisp  with  curiosity,  and 
her  old  blue  sunbonnet  took  on  an  interroga. 
tive  tilt. 

"Things  seem  'bout  the  same  as  common  at 
Susan's,"  she  said  to  herself,  quickening  her 
pace.  "The  fence  is  all  thar  and  the  bee- 
gums  is  standin'.    Nothin's  tore  down,"  she 


i2o  aiafiama  S&etcf)?* 


sighed,  regretfully.  "Howsomever,  I  don't 
hear  no  hens  cacklin,,,,  and  her  eyes  bright- 
ened. "But  thar's  the  old  black  sow  sunnin* 
herself  agin  the  fence  fat  as  ever,,,  she 
added,  sorrowfully. 

Lifting  the  gate  latch,  Nancy  heard  a  cheer- 
ful voice  within : 

u  Bring  forth  ther  raw-yell  di-er-dem 
And  era-own  Him  Lor-or-ord  of  all." 

"Thar's  Susan  a-singin'  Coronation,  and  it's 
a  true  word  that  Johnny's  saved  his  pap's 
mules,"  sniffed  Nancy,  tearfully,  and  her  mind 
reverted  to  old  Sorrel,  miles  away,  in  the 
hands  of  the  departed  Raiders. 

Nancy  listened  to  Susan's  story  with  a  keen 
but  melancholy  interest.  Susan  was  nearing 
the  end. 

"When  the  squad  stopped  agin  on  their  way 
back  from  the  swamp  and  called  for  some'h'n 
to  eat,  I  sot  in  and  fried  'em  a  half  side  o' 
bacon,  and  nigh  on  to  all  Speckle's  last  year's 
chickens. " 

"They  was  fine  pullets,  Suse." 

"Yes,  Nance ;  but  when  the  cap'n  told  me  my 
boy  and  gal  was  safe,  I  could  'a'  slaughtered 
the  whole  yard,  I  was  so  thankful.  I  heard 
the  cap'n  'How  to  the  sarjin,  while  they  sot 


$ap'0  Jftules  121 


eatin',  that  he'd  never  seed  sich  bare-back 
ridin'  outsidern  a  circus/' 

"Warn't  none  of  'em  teched  nowhar?" 

"Well,  Jude's  right  smart  brier-scratched 
round  the  legs,  and  she  left  some  of  her  hair  in 
the  swamp ;  but  skin  and  hair  ain't  like  clo'es ; 
they'll  grow  agin. " 

"It's  told  about  that  one  of  the  mules  was 
hurt." 

"A  ball  bored  a  hole  in  Cindy's  ear,  but 
Johnny  says  Cindy  had  ears  to  spare;  and 
Jude  'Hows  to  tie  a  ribbin'  in  the  hole  next 
time  she  rides  to  Oakville,  for  she's  got  word 
that  Brown's  red-headed  clerk's  laid  out  to 
joke  her  for  runnin'  from  the  Yanks.  But 
lan'  sakes!  Nance,  have  yer  walked  all  the 
way  from  the  Hollow?"  ended  Susan,  noting 
Nancy's  bedraggled  appearance. 

''Yes,  Suse,"  Nancy's  thin  lips  began  to 
quiver,  "Sorrel's  gone";  and  two  tears  made 
their  way  slowly  through  the  wrinkles  on  her 
yellow  cheeks.  She  drew  a  snuff-stained  wad 
from  her  flat  bosom  and  put  it  to  her  eyes. 

"Thar — thar,  Nance,  don't  cry,"  said  Susan 
compassionately,  picking  up  a  snuff-box  and 
well-chewed  brush  which  had  fallen  from 
Nancy's  kerchief.  "Sorrel  warn't  much 
account. " 


i22  aiafcama  &ktttf)t& 


"She  was  my  onliest  critter,' '  replied 
Nancy,  wiping  her  eyes.  "I  told  the  Yanks 
she  was  twenty  year  old,  and  axed  'em  to  look 
in  her  mouth.  But  the  head  robber  of  'em 
all  'llowed  that  nobody  could  tell  a  horse's 
age  by  teeth  after  it  was  eight  year  old. 
Far's  he  knowed,  Sorrel  mought  be  twenty  or 
she  mought  be  only  ten.  Anyhow,  he  'llowed 
on  that  horse  critters  was  skace,  and  Sorrel 
had  pints;  which  is  a  true  word,  for  she  was 
an  old  racer  when  I  got  her  from  Jack  Green's 
daddy.  She  won  many  a  dollar  for  old  Green 
when  she  was  young.  But  I'll  never  set  eyes 
on  Sorrel  agin,"  and  the  handkerchief  went  up 
to  her  face  once  more. 

Susan  offered  verbal  consolation,  but  Nancy 
remained  uncomforted.  How  was  she  in  future 
to  convey  her  eggs  and  butter  to  market?  If 
she  were  forced  to  walk,  every  one  at  the 
Hollow  would  go  and  come  before  her.  In 
the  midst  of  her  mourning  John  Cline  and 
Johnny  entered. 

Noting  Nancy's  grief-stricken  look,  John 
forebore  to  speak  to  her,  and  turned  to  Susan. 

"Thar's  great  news  at  Oakville,  wife. 
Word's  come  that  Lee's  surrendered,  and  the 
war's  done. " 

The  handkerchief  fell  from  Nancy's  face. 


^ap'ss  JttuU0  123 


In  silence  she  sat  and  stared  at  Cline  like  a 
sleep-walker. 

Johnny's  eyes  were  flashing. 

"And  Mis'  Barbour,  what  yer  reckin?  If  we 
didn't  find  old  Sorrel  a-wanderin'  round  the 
streets!  She  was  so  no  'count  the  Yanks 
turned  her  loose;  and  she's  out  thar  at  the 
gate." 

44 Do  you  hear,  Nance?  Sorrel's  come  back, 
and  the  war's  over,"  said  Susan,  patting 
Nancy  on  the  shoulder. 

Nancy  rallied. 

44What  d'yer  say,  Suse?"  She  clutched 
Susan's  arm.  44Sorrel's  come  back,  and  the 
war's  done?  Don't  a  human  soul  know  it  at 
the  Hollow!" 

And  Nancy  rose  to  her  feet. 


THE  OLD  PIANO 


THE  OLD  PIANO 


MISS  NANCY  PEYTON  was  indulging 
in  a  melancholy  pleasure :  she  was  view- 
ing the  past  through  the  medium  of  a  box  ot 
old  letters  and  keepsakes.  If  the  act  had  not 
been  voluntary,  one  would  have  doubted  if  the 
term  1 'pleasure"  were  not  misapplied.  Else 
why  did  tears  gather  in  her  eyes  and  roll  from 
time  to  time  silently  down  her  thin  cheeks? 
And  why  was  her  smile  sadder  even  than  her 
tears  as  it  dawned  and  died  in  a  quiver  of  her 
lip? 

It  was  springtime  in  Alabama.  The  south 
wind  gently  swayed  the  yellow  jasmine  sprays 
on  the  wide  veranda,  and  straying  into  the 
room,  impishly  rattled  the  time-yellowed  mis- 
sives that  Miss  Nancy's  slim  fingers  had 
untied.  The  breath  of  the  jasmine  was  fra- 
grant, but  not  so  sweet  to  Miss  Nancy's  lips  as 
the  knot  of  faded  violets  that  she  held  in  her 
hand.  With  a  tearful  kiss  she  put  them  back 
into  the  box  on  her  knee. 

Miss  Nancy  did  not  unlock  her  treasure 
127 


i28  aiafiama  &kttcf)t8 


casket  every  day.  Only  in  times  of  depression 
did  the  opening  lid  disclose  its  contents;  and 
she  never  closed  it  till  she  had  read  every  line 
of  every  note.  Why  she  did  so  is  a  psycho- 
logical mystery,  for  she  knew  them  all  by 
heart. 

They  were  arranged  chronologically,  and 
she  read  them  so.  Another  fact  was  revealed 
by  closer  inspection :  they  were  all  in  the  same 
hand,  the  hand  of  a  man;  the  signature  John 
Alston. 

The  first  note  was  merely  to  ask  if  she 
would  be  at  home  at  four  p.  m.  It  was  written 
the  day  after  she  had  first  met  him  at  a  ball 
given  by  the  officers  of  the  brigade.  That 
was  fifteen  years  ago.  She  was  twenty  then. 
Fifteen  and  twenty  were  thirty-five.  She 
glanced  at  the  mirror  across  the  room.  Her 
hair  was  well  sprinkled  with  gray.  She 
sighed. 

The  next  note  asked  if  she  would  take  a 
horseback  ride  with  the  writer.  How  well  she 
recalled  that  ride!  With  her  foot  in  his  hand, 
no  one  had  ever  before  lifted  her  so  surely  and 
gracefully  to  the  saddle.  They  rode  into  the 
country.  As  they  rode  among  the  hills  the 
wind  was  aromatic  with  the  odors  of  hickory 
buds  and  pine,  while  in  the  hollows  the  cool, 


129 


still  air  was  full  of  the  shy  perfume  of  wild 
honeysuckle  and  crab-apple  blooms.  She 
remembered  even  the  forms  of  the  brilliant- 
hued  clouds  that  hung  over  the  setting  sun  as 
they  parted  at  the  door. 

All  the  notes  might  easily  have  been  read  in 
less  than  five  minutes  by  any  one  but  Miss 
Nancy.  To  the  little  old  maid,  however,  each 
bit  of  paper  was  a  key  that  unlocked  a  van- 
ished happy  hour,  a  precious  memory  of  the 
past.  As  she  read  each  yellow  billet  she 
refolded  it  tenderly,  with  eyes  full  of  tears 
and  dreams. 

She  came  to  the  last.  It  was  one  of  the 
briefest  in  the  packet.  The  regiment  had 
received  unexpected  orders  to  march  at  sun- 
set. He  must  see  her  at  five.  He  had  some- 
thing to  tell  her.  How  wildly  her  heart  had 
throbbed  when  she  first  read  that  note.  She 
had  donned  with  care  her  prettiest  white  mus- 
lin gown,  and  looped  the  sleeves  with  blue 
ribbons.  Blue  was  his  favorite  color.  Her 
eyes  were  blue. 

Then  just  as  she  went  down  with  a  flutter- 
ing heart  to  wait  for  him  so  that  not  a  minute 
of  the  precious  parting  hour  should  be  lost, 
the  door-boy  without  warning  had  ushered  in 
upon  her  a  bevy  of  callers.    A  moment  after- 


i3°  aiafiama  Sfeetcfjes 


wards  John  Alston  came.  Never  could  she 
forget  the  disappointment  and  anger  that 
clouded  his  face  when  he  saw  the  visitors. 
But  he  gracefully  dissembled  his  wrath,  and 
presented  her  with  the  little  knot  of  violets. 

She  took  them  again  from  the  box  and 
kissed  them. 

She  had  tried  every  polite  art  to  make  the 
untimely  callers  take  their  leave:  she  made 
the  conversation  very  brilliant,  then  followed 
it  by  a  lull,  without  success;  finally  she  sang 
for  them  a  new  song  just  received.  Captain 
Alston  politely  accompanied  her  to  the  piano 
and  gave  her  a  reproachful  glance.  Could  it 
be  that  he  believed  the  callers  were  there  by 
her  arrangement  to  prevent  him  from  seeing 
her  alone?  Perhaps  he  did,  for  they  applauded 
the  song — and  stayed  on. 

At  last  the  time  was  up.  He  left,  with  his 
story  untold.    And  she  never  saw  him  again. 

The  war  dragged  on  with  its  dreary  succes- 
sion of  disasters  to  the  ill-starred  South. 
When  all  was  over  it  seemed  to  Miss  Nancy 
that  the  Peytons  had  fared  worse  than  any  of 
the  old  families.  Her  father  and  only  brother 
had  died  in  battle,  and  her  mother  and  she 
lived  on  at  the  family  mansion.  Struggle  as 
they  would,  poverty,  like  a  spider,  wove  an 


ever-contracting  net  about  them,  till  her 
mother  escaped  earthly  sorrow  by  the  door  of 
the  tomb. 

Miss  Nancy's  past  was  indeed  sad;  but  it 
was  the  grinding  care  of  the  present  that  had 
sent  her  to-day  to  weep  over  her  little  box  of 
keepsakes. 

To  support  herself  and  her  one  servant,  her 
old  decrepit  nurse,  she  gave  music  lessons  on 
her  piano,  which,  if  not  as  old  as  old  Hannah, 
was  quite  as  infirm  and  rheumatic.  They 
were  both  in  a  bad  way  in  the  matter  of  age, 
but  in  this  regard  there  was  more  hope  for  the 
piano  than  for  Hannah.  The  latter  could  not 
be  made  young  again,  but  the  piano  could  be 
tuned  and  renovated.  Half  the  strings  rat- 
tled, and  one  key  was  totally  dumb.  It  could 
not  be  delayed  longer.  She  owed  it  to  her 
music  pupils.  It  would  cost  eight  dollars. 
She  knew,  for  she  had  asked  the  old  English- 
man who  cared  for  the  health  of  the  super- 
annuated, antebellum  instruments  with  which 
the  town  abounded. 

Meantime  Miss  Nancy  had  locked  her  box 
of  keepsakes  and  put  it  away.  She  seated 
herself  in  her  little  willow  rocker,  looked  at 
the  old  piano,  and  sighed.  She  had  not  the 
eight  dollars.    She  knew  that  the  tuner  would 


i32  aiafcama  Sftetcfjea 


wait  for  his  pay  if  she  asked  him,  but  her 
ancestral  pride  revolted  at  the  thought. 

"Well,  Hannah?"  she  said,  interrogatively, 
as  the  old  negress  shuffled  into  the  room. 

"I'se  sorry  ter  tell  yer,  Miss  Nannie,  but  de 
flour  and  de  meal's  bofe  gin  out;  an'  dey  ain't 
more'n  a  poun'  o'  meat  lef,  an'  de  sugar  an' 
coffee  is  mighty  low." 

"You've  made  them  last  a  long  time, 
Hannah." 

"I  done  my  level  bes',  Miss  Nannie.  I 
biles  de  coffee  twice,  an'  I  crumbles  de  lef- 
over  corn-pone  in  de  new  dough,  an'  I  prays 
ober  'em,  but  dey  will  gin  out." 

"We  must  buy  more,"  said  Miss  Nancy, 
leaving  the  room.    "Wait  here,  Hannah." 

In  a  few  moments  she  returned.  One  hand 
held  a  large  silver  soup-ladle,  and  on  her  arm, 
closely  embraced,  she  brought  an  empty  cut- 
glass  decanter  of  quaint  and  exquisite  design. 

At  sight  of  her  mistress  a  tear  rolled  down 
old  Hannah's  face. 

"I  wuz  feared  you  wuz  gwine  do  dat,  Miss 
Nannie." 

"Hush,  Hannah!" 

"Miss  Nannie,  I  gotter  speak.  I's  a-con- 
sumin'  wid  shame.  I's  des  eatin'  up  all  de 
Peyton  silber, " 


i33 


"I  eat,  too,  Hannah." 

"How  much  does  yer  eat?  Not  ez  much  ez 
a  sparrer  bird. " 

The  old  woman's  apron  went  to  her  eyes. 
"I  can't  face  dat  ar  soup  ladle,  Miss  Nannie. 
Des  think  o'  all  de  good  gumbo  hit's  lit9  up 
in  dis  house,  an'  now  hit's  gwine  down  ter  dem 
ar  Jews,  an'  I'se  gotter  carry  hit.  Oh,  Miss 
Nannie!" 

"Hush,  Hannah.  The  money  for  the 
ladle  and  decanter  is  not  all  to  be  spent  for 
food." 

"What  yer  gwine  spen'  hit  fur,  Miss  Nan- 
nie?" 

"I  must  have  my  piano  repaired  and  tuned. 
All  our  small  revenue  comes  from  that  old 
instrument,  and  I  can  give  lessons  on  it  no 
longer  in  its  present  condition.  I've  tried  to 
keep  it  in  repair  myself." 

"'Deed  you  has,  Miss  Nannie.  Many  a 
time  I'se  seed  yer  workin'  at  hit  wid  dat 
holler-headed  tack  hammer,  an'  I  thought  o' 
all  dem  three  hundred  niggers  ole  Marser  use 
ter  own." 

"Never  mind  that,  Hannah.  Take  these 
things  and  this  note — you  know  where.  I 
think  they  will  bring  fifteen  dollars.  And  on 
your  return  stop  at  Mr.  Hathaway's  and  tell 


i34  &lafiama  gbtttfytz 


him  I  wish  him  to  come  to-morrow  and  repair 
my  piano. " 

The  grief-stricken  owner  of  the  head-hand- 
kerchief left  the  room,  and  muttered  to  her- 
self as  she  hobbled  on  her  errand:  4  4  Dis 
is  de  hebbiest  basket  I  ever  toted.  Seem 
lak  dis  soup  ladle  weigh  forty  poun. '  An* 
Miss  Nannie  she's  des  gittin'  thinner  an' 
thinner,  she  dat  wuz  so  pretty.  But  'tain't 
all  poverty  an'  teachin'  whut's  de  matter. 
Dis  ole  nigger  am'  no  bline  mole.  Miss  Nan- 
nie's des  a-wearin'  her  heart  out  fur  dat  ole 
sweetheart  o'  hern.  An*  Marse  Alston  he 
loved  Miss  Nannie;  I  seed  love  in  his  eyes." 

44I  was  delayed,  Miss  Peyton,  or  I  should 
have  come  at  nine,"  said  the  old  piano-tuner 
as  he  bustled  into  the  room  next  morning  at 
eleven. 

4 4 An  hour  or  so  doesn't  matter,  Mr.  Hatha- 
way. There  is  never  occasion  for  haste  in 
Oakville." 

He  ran  his  withered  fingers  over  the  key- 
board. 4  4  Hum — m,  out  of  tune,  and  the 
action  needs  regulating — one  key  entirely 
dumb." 

He  opened  his  handbag,  took  out  his  tools, 
and  proceeded  to  the  business  in  hand.  Miss 
Nancy  stood  near  with  keen  interest.    It  was 


*35 


quite  an  event  to  her.  She  went  to  open 
another  window  to  let  in  more  light. 

"Yes,  I  was  delayed,  Miss  Peyton,"  said 
the  little  old  man,  working  away.  He  was 
fond  of  gossip.  44 1  was  called  out  to  the 
Randolph  place. " 

"I  thought  the  house  was  vacant  since  the 
old  Judged  death,"  said  Miss  Nancy,  throw- 
ing open  the  window-blinds. 

44 It  was  till  this  week;  but  the  heir  has 
come. " 

44The  second  cousin?" 

"Yes." 

4  4  One  of  the  Randolphs  of  Virginia,  I  pre- 
sume?" 

44No;  a  cousin  in  the  female  line;  one  of  the 
Alstons  of  South  Carolina." 

Miss  Nancy's  heart  gave  a  little  leap. 

4 4 He  was  named  for  the  Judge,  you  know," 
added  the  old  man,  picking  at  the  strings  of 
the  piano. 

44I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  Judge  Ran- 
dolph's Christian  name,"  remarked  Miss 
Nancy,  interrogatively.  4  4  He  was  never 
called  anything  but  Judge." 

44The  Judge's  given  name  was  John,  and  the 
heir's  name  is  John  Cecil  Alston,  and  he  is 
the  richest  man  in  Oakville." 


136  aiafiama  i&tutcfjes 


Miss  Nancy's  knees  gave  way  beneath  her. 
She  sank  on  an  ottoman,  and  the  folds  of  the 
damask  curtain  rolled  about  her,  almost  con- 
cealing her  little  form. 

The  old  man  noticed  nothing,  but  continued 
to  strum  and  click  with  his  instruments  at  the 
vitals  of  the  old  piano.  He  was  becoming 
absorbed  in  his  occupation,  and  began  to  sing 
to  himself  in  a  cracked,  quavering  voice  as  he 
worked: 

"  Maxwelltown  braes  are  bonnie, 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
'Twas  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gied  me  her  promise  true." 

By  and  by  he  ceased  singing  and  hummed 
softly,  and  Miss  Nancy  summoned  courage  to 
speak. 

"I  suppose" — she  stopped;  she  could  not 
say  his  name — "I  suppose  Judge  Randolph's 
heir  has  brought  his  wife  with  him?" 

She  did  not  speak  loudly  and  her  voice  was 
somewhat  deadened  by  the  curtain.  The  old 
man  caught  the  sound  but  could  not  distin- 
guish the  words. 

* 4 What  did  you  remark,  Miss  Peyton?" 

"Did  you  see  his  wife?" 

"Whose  wife?" 

"The  wife  of  Judge  Randolph's  heir." 


Cf)e  ©Or  Itano 


x37 


"Mr.  John  Cecil  Alston  has  no  wife.  He's 
an  old  bachelor. 

1  And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee.'  99 

The  laborer's  thoughts  were  again  on  his 
work.  There  was  a  scraping  sound,  he  was 
taking  out  the  action. 

The  hour  was  approaching  noon.  The 
balm  of  flowers  floated  in  from  the  garden 
blent  with  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees,  while  far  off 
in  the  pines  was  heard  the  cooing  of  a  dove. 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  tuned  this  instru- 
ment before,  Miss  Peyton?" 

"No.  Except  for  the  little  turns  I've  given 
it,  it  has  not  been  tuned  in  fifteen  years." 

"Ah,  what  have  we  here  caught  under  the 
hammer?  A  bit  of  paper.  Why,  it's  a  note, 
and  addressed  to  you,  Miss  Peyton.  No 
wonder  that  key  was  dumb." 

The  old  man  went  on  with  his  work.  Miss 
Nancy  retired  behind  the  curtain  with  the 
note.  It  was  written  hurriedly  with  a  pencil 
on  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  ran  thus: 

Miss  Nannie  :  Good-bye!  I  love  you  more  than 
all  the  world.  If  you  think  you  can  ever  care  for  me, 
write  to  me  at  Atlanta  within  a  week. 

Yours  always, 

John  Cecil  Alston. 


138  aiafiama  Sttetcfjes 


She  clasped  it  tightly  in  both  hands  to  her 
breast.  If  a  bird  ever  sobbed,  it  would  sound 
like  the  queer  noise  Miss  Nancy  made,  half  a 
sob,  half  a  piteous  little  laugh.  Yes,  he  had 
loved  her,  loved  her  ' '  more  than  all  the 
world. M 

He  had  written  the  note  doubtless  behind 
her  back  while  she  sang,  that  last  afternoon. 
He  had  placed  it  where  he  thought  she  would 
be  certain  to  look.  She  must  have  brushed  it 
into  the  piano  while  moving  the  sheet-music, 
and  it  had  stayed  there  fifteen  years. 

She  left  the  old  man  at  work  and  went  to 
her  room.  She  could  not  talk  to  any  one. 
She  wanted  to  be  alone — to  think. 

It  was  fifteen  years  ago  John  Alston  had 
loved  her.  Fifteen  years  ago  she  had  bright 
eyes,  and  dimples,  and  apple-blossom  cheeks. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl  in  his  memory,  if  he  ever 
thought  of  her  at  all.  It  was  a  pretty  girl  he 
had  loved,  not  a  faded  little  woman  with  gray 
locks  and  tired  eyes.  How  foolish  of  her 
heart  to  beat  so.  If  he  was  in  Oakville  he 
had  not  come  to  see  her,  but  to  inherit  an 
estate.  She  wept.  Then  she  rose.  She 
would  put  this  last  note  with  the  others. 
They  belonged  all  to  the  past.     She  would 


x39 


lock  them  all  in  the  box  and  never  open  it 
again. 

She  had  unlocked  the  box  and  untied  the 
ribbon  that  held  the  notes  together,  when  she 
heard  a  step  on  the  stair.  She  thrust  the  note 
into  her  bosom.  But  it  was  only  old  Hannah. 
She  met  the  old  woman  with  an  inquiring 
glance. 

4 here's  a  gen'leman  ter  see  yer  downstairs, 
Miss  Nannie. " 

"Who  is  it,  Hannah?" 

"He  didn't  gin  his  name.  I  axed  him  in  de 
libery,  'kaze  Marse  Hathaway  wuz  in  de  par- 
lor." 

The  old  negress  lingered. 

Miss  Nancy  began  to  brush  her  hair  for  a 
speedy  descent. 

"De  gen'leman  said  he  knowed  yer  endoren' 
de  war,"  said  Hannah,  nervously. 

Miss  Nancy  adjusted  her  collar. 

"Don't  go  down  in  dat  lonesome  black, 
Miss  Nannie;  wah  some'h'n  white." 

"I  haven't  anything  white,  Hannah." 

"Honey,  yes  yer  is,"  and  the  old  woman 
brought  with  shaking  hands  a  white  muslin 
gown. 

Miss  Nancy  recognized  it  and  felt  faint. 


i4°  aiafiama  j&tutcfies 


She  was  weak.  She  hadn't  had  of  late  the 
kind  of  food  she  could  eat. 

"Day's  a-breakin',  little  Missy;  de  gen'le- 
man  shook  dis  ole  nigger's  han'." 

Miss  Nancy's  fingers  could  not  fasten  the 
white  gown.    Hannah  did  it. 

"Now  lem  me  pin  dese  on,"  taking  up  the 
knot  of  withered  violets  from  the  open  box. 

"Hannah!"  said  Miss  Nancy,  trembling. 

"Forgib  me,  little  Missy — hit's  Marse  Als- 
ton!" 


MRS.  McMURTRIE'S  ROOSTER 


MRS.  McMURTRIE'S  ROOSTER 


a/^^\NE  must  have,  of  course,  some  chief 

W  pursuit,  some  great  ambition,"  said 
Frank  Wharton,  elucidating  his  favorite  theory 
to  his  friend  John  Stevens,  over  a  cigar. 
"But  a  mind  always  laboring  at  one  thing 
resembles  a  machine  with  too  much  friction 
on  one  cog.  Even  if  the  wheel  is  the  stoutest, 
it  will  be  the  first  to  wear  out,  entailing  prema- 
ture uselessness,  or  perhaps  even  destruction, 
upon  the  whole  mechanism. " 

44 You  mean  every  fellow  should  have  a  fad," 
said  Jack,  smoking  contemplatively. 

4  4  Not  a  fad,  but  an  avocation — something 
more  permanent." 

4 4 Like  golf  or  polo,"  suggested  Jack. 

44No;  not  like  polo  or  golf,"  responded 
Wharton  a  bit  impatiently.  4  4  They  are  games. 
I  mean  some  secondary  pursuit  to  follow  at 
odd  times;  and  not  for  a  season  only,  but  for 
years,  perhaps  for  life. 

44I  don't  deny  the  usefulness  of  rest  and 
recreation,"  resumed  the  theorist,  after  a  puff 
143 


i44  &la6ama  &ktUf>t$ 


or  two,  "but  I've  found  out  by  experience 
that  nothing  rests  like  change  of  work.  As 
for  recreation,  in  the  case  of  young  men  it 
easily  glides  into  something  worse,  and  I  am 
convinced  that  the  business  or  professional 
man  who  wishes  to  escape  prostrated  nerves 
must  seek  some  pleasant  avocation. " 

As  Wharton's  profession  was  the  law,  and 
his  chosen  field  the  little  West  Alabama  town 
of  Oakville,  where  overwork  was  unheard  of 
and  nervous  prostration  an  unknown  phenome- 
non, he  may  seem  to  have  theorized  needlessly. 
But  he  was  far-seeing  as  well  as  logical. 
Moreover,  two  clients  the  first  three  months 
after  the  display  of  his  shingle,  and  the 
encouraging  prospect  of  a  notaryship,  im- 
pelled him  to  hasten  the  practice  of  his  pet 
scheme. 

But  what  should  be  his  avocation?  Restful 
work  must  of  necessity  give  pleasure,  conse- 
quently his  choice  of  an  avocation  should  be 
decided  by  some  personal  bent.  Art?  He 
preferred  the  nearest  window  to  any  picture. 
Music?  He  could  hardly  whistle  one  tune. 
Bee-keeping?  The  little  insects  might  swarm 
in  the  middle  of  court  week;  besides,  he  hated 
honey.  Wood-carving?  He  could  never  whit- 
tle without  cutting  his  fingers.    In  his  per- 


JBtra,  fflcMuxtxit's  fcoozttx  145 


plexity  he  gazed  at  a  green-grocer's  store 
across  the  way  and  was  straightway  inspired. 

"Gardening!"  he  exclaimed,  like  one  who 
has  met  his  fate. 

He  had  always  liked  to  "see  things  grow- 
ing," but  being  town-bred,  he  had  never  had 
an  opportunity  to  assist  the  verdant  aspira- 
tions of  nature. 

"Gardening  it  shall  be!"  and  he  slapped  his 
knee  in  the  exuberance  of  satisfaction. 

Eminently  logical  Wharton  was,  yet  a  man 
of  action.  In  a  month  he  had  installed  him- 
self in  a  cozy  suburban  cottage  with  an  acre  of 
ground,  not  forgetting,  in  the  selection  of  the 
ground  for  horticultural  purposes,  the  possi- 
bility of  a  wife  in  the  choice  of  his  house. 

The  daffodil,  which  comes  before  the  swal- 
low dares,  chooses  February  for  its  arrival  at 
Oakville,  and  spring  was  already  peeping 
pink-clad  from  the  peach-boughs  as  the  young 
lawyer  sowed  his  first  paper  of  radish  seeds. 

"What  are  you  planting?"  inquired  a  rasp- 
ing, nasal  voice  from  the  fence  that  separated 
Wharton's  demesne  from  that  of  his  right-hand 
neighbor. 

"Seed,"  said  the  startled  lawyer,  rising 
suddenly  from  the  fresh-turned  mold  to  spy 
the  end  of  a  long,  sharp  nose  and  a  lock  of 


H6  aiafiama  Sftetcfje* 


reddish-gray  hair,  beneath  an  old  brown  sun- 
bonnet,  protruding  over  the  fence. 

"Of  course, "  said  the  sunbonnet;  "I  didn't 
suppose  you  were  planting  ice  or  gunpowder. " 

"Beg  pardon,  Miss — 99 

"I'm  not  a  Miss.  I'm  Mrs.  McMurtrie.  I 
had  a  husband  once,"  interrupted  the  sun- 
bonnet  quickly,  with  an  indignant  grunt. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  McMurtrie — I'm  Mr. 
Wharton — I'm  planting  radish  seed." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first?" 

With  a  quick  motion  Mrs.  McMurtrie  pushed 
back  her  sunbonnet  and  revealed  a  thin  face 
and  a  glaring  pair  of  spectacles,  before  which 
Wharton  felt  like  a  guilty  schoolboy. 

"Well,  Mr.  Wharton,  if  you'd  asked  my 
advice,  I'd  have  said  plant  fruit-trees  and  let 
gardening  alone.  You  don't  seem  to  know 
much  about  it." 

"Appearances  in  this  case  are  not  decep- 
tive," said  Wharton,  in  his  suavest  tone.  If 
he  could  not  love  his  neighbor  he  would  try  to 
propitiate  her.  "Yet,  Mrs.  McMurtrie,  next 
to  my  chosen  profession,  the  law,  I  love  gar- 
dening above  all  occupations.  It  is  the  dream 
of  my  life  to  raise  fine  radishes  and — " 

"Radishes!"  grunted  Mrs.  McMurtrie 
through  her  nose.    "You'll   have  different 


JJfttg,  JHcJ&urtnVs  booster  147 


dreams  after  you  have  swallowed  them.  They 
are  very  cold  on  the  stomach.  You'd  better 
plant  fruit-trees/' 

"I'll  risk  the  radishes.  I've  a  good  diges- 
tion," returned  the  lawyer,  leaning  on  his  hoe 
and  smiling  amiably.  44  Gardening  is  the 
healthiest  of  work  and  the  primal  occupation 
of  man.  Adam,  our  first  ancestor,  you  know, 
kept  a  garden." 

44 And  was  driven  out  of  it." 

"For  eating  fruit.  Got  you  there,  Mrs. 
McMurtrie,"  said  the  daring  Wharton,  ventur- 
ing a  small  laugh. 

"Fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  which  dis- 
proves your  ancestry,  Mr.  Wharton." 

Wharton's  laughter  shrivelled,  and  the  spec- 
tacles followed  up  their  victory  with  a  conde- 
scending smile  which  made  the  lawyer  long  to 
throw  his  hoe  at  them,  or  swear,  or  something; 
but  he  forebore. 

4  4  Gardening  in  this  neighborhood,  Mr. 
Wharton,  is  a  losing  business,"  resumed  Mrs. 
McMurtrie,  when  the  lawyer  was  sufficiently 
humiliated.  4  4  Mr.  Bunny,  who  came  before 
you,  failed  at  it,  and  you'll  fail,  too.  The 
soil  is  infested  with  worms  and  bugs.  If  your 
vegetables  come  up,  which  I  doubt,  seeing 
you  know  nothing  about  gardening,  the  bugs 


H8  aiafiama  S&rtcSes 


and  worms'll  eat  them  up  as  soon  as  they  are 
above  ground.  But,  bless  me,  how  dark  it's 
growing.  I  must  go  in.  Good  night,  Mr. 
Wharton/' 

1 4 Good  night,  Mrs.  McMurtrie,"  answered 
Wharton,  audibly.  4  *  Deuce  take  you!"  he 
added  under  his  breath. 

Twenty  feet  from  the  fence  the  bonnet 
turned  toward  him. 

44  'Tain't  my  fault  that  we  are  neighbors, 
Mr.  Wharton,  and  it  won't  be  my  fault  if  we 
are  enemies,"  and  justifying  tradition  by  hav- 
ing the  last  word,  the  bonnet  disappeared  in 
the  house  and  the  door  was  banged  to. 

Wharton  was  truly  puzzled,  and  meditated 
over  his  strange  neighbor  and  their  singular 
interview  as  he  sat  smoking  that  night. 

44 A  man  neither  lives  nor  dies  to  himself, 
the  preachers  tell  us,"  he  soliloquized.  44It's 

clear   he   can't  garden   to  himself  

4Bugs  and  worms'! — I  didn't  see  one.  I 
wonder  what  she  meant!  ....  4 Plant  fruit- 
trees' — as  if   bugs  were  not  a   sight  more 

destructive  to  fruit  than  to  vegetables  

There's  4a  nigger  in  the  woodpile'  some- 
where," puffed  on  Wharton,  quoting  in  his 
reverie  an  old  bit  of  Southern  slang. 

Here  his   meditation  was  interrupted  by 


JHrjs,  JHcJHurtrte'a  booster  149 


music.  He  laid  down  his  pipe  and  went  to 
the  window  to  listen. 

"By  George,  that's  a  sweet  voice!"  he  ex- 
claimed to  himself. 

The  voice  floated  from  Mrs.  McMurtrie's 
cottage,  and  sang  "Within  a  Mile  o'  Edinburgh 
Town"  to  a  piano  accompaniment. 

"I'll  bet  she's  as  sweet  as  a  rose,"  con- 
tinued the  young  lawyer.  "Heaven  knows, 
she  ought  to  be.  Such  a  thorn  as  Mrs.  Mc- 
Murtrie  should  sport  the  loveliest  rose  in 
the  world,  according  to  the  law  of  compen- 
sation." 

With  the  end  of  the  song  the  piano  closed, 
greatly  to  Wharton's  regret,  and  the  young 
fellow  retired  with  the  resolution  to  make 
acquaintance  of  the  singer  by  fair  means  or 
foul,  even  if  he  had  to  dare  the  wrath  of  the 
old  brown  sunbonnet. 

Wharton  thought  no  more  of  his  avocation 
that  night.  Nothing  less  poetical  than  red 
lips  and  roses  crossed  his  happy  sleep,  and 
resting  as  he  had  never  done  before,  he  rose 
to  meet  the  morning  with  a  brain  as  clear  as 
the  dewdrops  that  swung  on  the  daffodils 
beneath  his  bedroom  window. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  the  fondness  for 
his  avocation  had  returned  with  full  power. 


150  aiafiama  Stfutcfjeg 


There  was  no  time  for  seed-planting  before 
breakfast,  but  it  would  be  delightful  merely  to 
look  over  the  ground,  for  the  amateur  gardener 
takes  as  much  pleasure  in  laying  out,  in  imagi- 
nation, his  mellow  mold  as  a  young  woman 
does  in  arranging  a  vase  of  beautiful  roses  or 
other  lovely  flowers. 

Alas!  when  Wharton  reached  the  spot  he 
beheld  a  sight  that  stirred  his  wrath.  Along 
his  carefully  planted  radish-bed  were  scattered 
eight  or  more  leghorn  fowls  making  the  loamy 
soil  fly  with  beak  and  toe,  while  a  large  white 
rooster  was  summoning  the  remainder  of  his 
flock  with  the  most  urgent  calls  from  Mrs. 
McMurtrie's  back-yard  fence. 

The  mystery  of  Mrs.  McMurtrie's  conversa- 
tion was  solved.  Mrs.  McMurtrie  had  an  avo- 
cation also,  and  it  was  raising  poultry. 
Wharton  understood  why  the  unfortunate 
Bunny  had  failed  at  gardening,  and  why  his 
own  failure  was  prophesied. 

He  shooed  the  fowls  across  the  fence, 
smoothed  over  the  radish-bed,  and  returned 
to  the  house  too  angry  to  eat  his  breakfast, 
and  so  had  a  headache  all  day. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  his  gardening 
troubles.  Wharton  had  pictured  the  practice 
of  his  avocation  as  one  long,  sweet  idyl,  a 


JBtrs,  JKcjf&urtrtV*  Ifcooater  151 


vista  of  toothsome  bunches  of  rosy  radishes, 
juicy  peas,  scarlet  tomatoes,  and  golden  car- 
rots. The  following  six  weeks  resembled  the 
opening  of  an  epic.  Beds  of  lettuce,  beets, 
and  spinach  met  the  fate  of  the  radishes,  and 
served  as  themes  for  animated  discussion 
across  the  fence.  In  every  argument  he  was 
woefully  worsted,  till,  mentally  bruised  and 
disheartened,  he  finally  sought  advice  and 
consolation  from  Stevens. 

Jack  listened  to  Wharton's  dismal  story 
with  outward  sympathy  and  much  inward  en- 
joyment. 

4  *  Remonstrated  with  Mrs.  McMurtrie?,, 
44  'Remonstrated?'  Well,  I  should  say  so! 
But  it's  the  same  tune  always,  with  variations — 
4bugs  and  worms.'  You  see,  she  laid  her  case 
at  our  first  meeting.  I  told  her  her  hens  were 
devouring  my  seed." 
44And  she  said?" 

44She  said  anybody  but  a  ninny  would  know 
that  hens  never  ate  radish  seed,  for  radish 
seed  was  as  strong  as  mustard  seed  and  would 
burn  out  any  hen's  insides.  No,  she  asserted, 
the  fowls  were  after  bugs  and  worms,  and 
instead  of  raising  a  row  I  should  be  grateful 
to  her  hens  for  destroying  them.  Then  she 
laughed,  and  the  old  white  rooster  flapped  his 


152  aiafiama  i&ttetcfjes 


wings  and  crowed  at  the  top  of  his  stentorian 
voice/' 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her,  Frank,  that  the 
bugs  and  worms  in  your  ground  were  your 
bugs  and  worms,  and  you  didn't  wish  them 
destroyed?" 

"I  did;  and  she  said  that  if  I  was  such  a 
crank  as  to  set  up  a  nursery  for  bugs  and 
worms,  she'd  be  happy  to  tell  the  town,  and 
I'd  never  get  another  case  at  the  law." 

"It's  not  panning  out  as  you  expected,  I 
see — your  avocation,"  said  Stevens,  refilling 
his  pipe. 

"It  would  be  really  idyllic  but  for  Mrs. 
McMurtrie's  fowls,"  said  Wharton,  stoutly. 
"By  George,  Jack,  you  should  have  seen  my 
peas!  After  numerous  failures,  due  to  the 
same  cause,  I  succeeded  in  starting  two  rows 
of  the  prettiest  peas  ever  seen.  In  two  weeks 
they  would  have  been  ready  to  stick,  when 
Mrs.  McMurtrie's  fowls  flew  over  and  devoured 
half  of  them.  My  cook  saw  them  at  it. 
There  was  no  mistake." 

"Mrs.  McMurtrie  must  have  admitted  your 
grievance  in  the  case  of  the  peas." 

"Not  she,"  said  Wharton,  indignantly. 
"Now,  Stevens,  just  guess  what  defense  she 
put  forward." 


JJftrs,  fflcMwtxit'fS  boaster  153 


"Give  it  up." 

"Rabbits!"  exploded  Wharton.  "She  said 
rabbits  had  eaten  the  peas,  that  the  fields  and 
hedges  were  full  of  cotton-tailed  rabbits,  and 
anybody  would  tell  me  they  were  extremely 
destructive  to  peas." 

"You  certainly  have  been  long-suffering," 
said  Stevens.  "But  the  loss  of  your  peas 
must  have  been  the  last  straw,  and  you  are 
going  to  sue  for  damages.    I  would." 

"Well,  no;  you  see,  Jack,  if — "  Wharton 
shuffled  and  hesitated — "if  I  did  that  it  would 
cause  an  open  rupture,  and  I  shouldn't  be 
permitted  to  visit  the  house." 

44  4 Open  rupture!  Visit  the  house !'  "  Ste- 
vens dropped  his  favorite  brierwood  in  aston- 
ishment. "Merciful  heavens!  You  don't 
mean  to  say  that  you  visit  the  dragon  and  sip 
tea  between  skirmishes?" 

4  4  No,  not  exactly,  but — "  The  young  law- 
yer paused  and  actually  wriggled  with  real 
nervousness. 

4 4 Oho!"  exclaimed  Stevens,  as  he  stared 
most  unmercifully  at  Wharton's  blushes.  44I 
see;  I  see;  Mrs.  McMurtrie  has  a  daughter, 
and  you  are  bringing  a  suit  of  another  kind — 
practising  in  the  court  of  love  on  the  sly. 
'There's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life  as  love's 


i54  aiafcama  S&etcfje* 


young  dream!'  But,  I  say,  have  you  con- 
sidered what  a  model  mother-in-law  Mrs. 
McMurtrie  will  make?" 

"Shut  up,  Stevens !"  said  the  guyed  lawyer; 
"Nellie  Mosby  is  not  Mrs.  McMurtrie's  daugh- 
ter, but  her  niece,  and  not  really  her  niece, 
for  Mrs.  McMurtrie  is  Nellie's  uncle-in-law's 
second  wife,  so  you  see  there's  no  blood  tie. 
But  you'd  not  need  to  be  told  they  were  no 
kin.  Nellie's  only  eighteen,  and  by  some 
hocus  pocus  Mrs.  McMurtrie  is  her  guardian 
with  control  of  the  girl's  property  till  she's 
twenty-one.  Nellie's  an  angel;  she  truly  is. 
She  sympathizes  with  me ;  and  oh,  Jack,  you 
ought  to  hear  her  sing  'Within  a  Mile  o' 
Edinburgh  Town'!" 

"Well,  I'd  be  glad  to  hear  her  sing  within  a 
mile  of  anywhere,  and  it  isn't  my  fault  that  I 
haven't,"  exclaimed  Jack. 

Wharton  then  related  the  story  of  his  love; 
how  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  voice  at  first, 
and  how  he  had  contrived  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  its  owner  at  the  house  of  a 
neighbor,  and  had  discovered  that  the  bird 
was  even  sweeter  than  its  song.  So  hard  hit 
was  he,  he  had  dared  to  call  at  Mrs.  Mc- 
Murtrie's, and  had  persevered  in  his  visits, 
though  he  was  tolerated  and  not  welcomed  by 


Mx$.  iHcjffilurtrte^  booster  155 


the  elder  woman  on  account  of  the  battles  at 
the  fence.    It  was  the  old  story — ever  new. 

Stevens  listened  attentively,  and  when 
Wharton  had  finished  he  said,  gravely:  " If  I 
were  you,  Frank,  and  loved  the  girl  as  hard 
as  you  say  you  do,  I'd  renounce  my  avocation, 
at  least  for  the  present.  What  is  the  worth  of 
a  few  vegetables  compared  with  the  heart  and 
hand  of  a  pretty  girl  like  Miss  Mosby,  and  a 
hand  that  holds  money,  too?" 

"Cut  that,  Jack!  I'm  in  love  with  the  girl, 
not  with  her  property,"  said  Wharton,  ear- 
nestly. "But  you  don't  understand;  the  girl 
thinks  her  aunt  wrong  and  sides  with  me.  She 
says  I  must  not  give  up  my  garden,  that  she 
could  not  respect  me  if  I  had  so  little  of  the 
proper  spirit." 

The  men  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"Rabbits,  rabbits,  cotton-tailed  rabbits,'' 
hummed  Stevens,  meditatively.  "By  Jove, 
Wharton,  I  have  it!" 

"Have  what?" 

"A  scheme  by  which  you  can  rout  the 
dragon  and  save  your  garden." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  unfold  it!"  exclaimed 
the  amateur  gardener. 

Stevens  straightway  explained  his  plan. 
When  the  details  were  completed,  and  he 


156  aiafiama  gbtttfytz 


awaited  Wharton's  applause,  the  latter  looked 
up  with  a  pleased  but  rather  doubtful  smile. 

"It's  a  first-class  bluff  and  nothing  more." 

"That's  all  it's  meant  to  be." 

"But  will  Mrs.  McMurtrie  be  bluffed?" 
asked  Wharton,  doubtfully. 

"I'll  bet  my  brierwood  pipe,"  replied 
Stevens,  "that  she  don't  call  it." 

Mrs.  McMurtrie's  white  leghorn  rooster  was 
a  sagacious  fowl.  Billie  White — for  so  his 
owner  had  named  her  pride — might,  in  the 
matter  of  education,  be  termed  a  self-made 
fowl,  for  no  efforts  had  been  made  to  train 
him.  The  vigorous  "shooings"  of  Wharton 
alone,  accompanied  by  flying  clods  and  occa- 
sional stones,  soon  taught  him  to  limit  his 
incursions  to  the  hours  of  Wharton's  absence. 
It  was  Billie's  habit  to  fly  up  in  a  half-dead 
peach-tree  that  leaned  over  the  division 
fence, — a  tree  that  Wharton  had  vainly  im- 
plored Mrs.  McMurtrie  to  cut  down, — and  if 
the  way  was  clear,  Billie  would  summon  his 
numerous  wives  for  the  forage  in  the  garden. 
If  Wharton  came  in  view,  Billie  gave  a  pecu- 
liar cry  that  not  only  warned  his  destructive 
family,  but  also  informed  Mrs.  McMurtrie  that 
the  enemy  was  nigh. 


JJflrs*  MtMwtxit^  Uoosttt  157 


The  day  after  Stevens  had  proposed  to 
Wharton  his  scheme  for  the  salvation  of  the 
garden  and  the  peaceful  enjoyment  of  his 
avocation,  the  rooster  gave  his  signal  call, 
which  was  echoed  by  the  hens,  and  in  half  a 
minute  Mrs.  McMurtrie's  spectacles  appeared 
at  her  kitchen  door  and  glared  at  him. 

The  lawyer's  singular  movements,  which 
bore  no  relation  to  gardening,  evidently  ex- 
cited Mrs.  McMurtrie's  curiosity,  for  she  im- 
mediately donned  her  sunbonnet  and  came  to 
the  fence. 

"In  the  name  of  conscience,  what  are  you 
doing,  Mr.  Wharton?' '  said  the  spectacles, 
after  a  moment  of  silent  observation. 

Wharton  rose  and  lifted  his  hat.  "Ah,  Mrs. 
McMurtrie,  is  that  you?  Beautiful  day,  is  it 
not?"  said  the  lawyer,  ignoring  the  question, 
and  again  stooping. 

"The  day's  well  enough.  What  are  you 
making?" 

Wharton  rose  again.  "I'm  making  a  rabbit- 
trap,  Mrs.  McMurtrie.  I'm  vastly  grateful  for 
the  kind  information  you  gave  me,  and  I'm 
going  to  catch  that  beastly  rabbit." 

Then  Wharton  explained.  "You  see,  Mrs. 
McMurtrie,  this  beam  with  the  heavy  stone 
a-top  it,  works  by  a  trigger,  and  when — " 


i58  aiafiama  Sfcetcfjea 


"I  know/'  interrupted  the  spectacles,  with 
an  apprehensive  backward  glance.  4 4 That's 
not  a  trap,  it's  a  dead-fall.  It  will  smash  the 
rabbit  as  flat  as  a  griddle-cake !" 

"Quite  true,  Mrs.  McMurtrie;  but  I'd  just 
as  lief  catch  him  dead  as  alive.  I'm  going  to 
set  the  dead-fall  to-night,  and  when  the  rabbit 
comes  in  the  morning  this  log" — Wharton 
bent  over  the  log — 4  4 will  be  suspended  over 
the  peas,  and  when  he  goes  to  nipping  and 
touches  this  trigger,  down  falls  the  log,  and 
Br'er  Rabbit  is  translated  to  a  better  world. 
It's  simply  great,  isn't  it?" 

Wharton  looked  up  and  found  himself  alone. 
"For  once  a  man  had  the  last  word,"  he 
chuckled.  But  no;  he  knew  not  the  resources 
of  a  woman.  The  violent  closure  of  Mrs. 
McMurtrie's  kitchen  door  was  more  eloquent 
than  speech. 

"Your  brierwood's  safe,"  said  Wharton  to 
Stevens,  two  days  later. 

44I  knew  it  would  be,"  laughed  Jack.  "The 
scheme  worked?" 

4 4 Like  a  charm,"  responded  Wharton,  in 
particularly  high  feather  over  his  triumph. 

Next  day  the  young  man  was  not  so  merry. 
He  went  to  see  Nellie  Mosby  and  was  denied 
admission. 


Wharton  was  disappointed,  but  not  dis- 
mayed. He  could  see  Nellie  on  the  street. 
She  was  fond  of  walking,  and  he  would  way- 
lay her.  But  he  did  not.  For  two  days  she 
never  left  the  house.  Was  she  ill,  he  won- 
dered. 

The  third  day  Wharton  weakened,  and  re- 
moved the  dead-fall,  and  began  to  hate 
Stevens.  Still  Nellie  did  not  appear;  and 
strange  to  say,  neither  did  the  white  rooster. 
Nellie  must  be  ill;  or  perhaps  Mrs.  McMurtrie 
had  locked  her  up.  The  harassing  uncer- 
tainty made  him  miserable,  and  he  neglected 
his  business,  for  his  fear  of  missing  Nellie 
caused  him  to  watch  Mrs.  McMurtrie's  gate 
almost  unceasingly. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  the  gate 
clicked;  he  saw  Nellie  starting  for  the  village. 

4 4 Miss  Nellie,"  said  Wharton,  overtaking 
her,  "I  was  beginning  to  think  I'd  never  see 
you."  The  girl  averted  her  head  with  a 
pretty  semblance  of  displeasure. 

14 Go  away,  sir!  I'm  forbidden  to  speak  to 
you.    We  must  part  forever." 

44Nellie!" 

,  44What  have  you  done  with  my  aunt's 
rooster?"  she  asked,  finally,  turning  her  head. 
"Billie  White's  been  missing  four  days.  Aunt's 


160  aiafcama  Sfeetcfjes 


in  bed,  ill  with  grief,  and  I've  had  to  nurse 
her.    It  hasn't  been  any  fun,  I  assure  you." 

Wharton  was  aghast.  "Your  aunt  thinks 
I've  made  way  with  her  rooster?  And  you, 
too,  suspect  me?" 

4 'I  never  said  I  suspected  you.  But  the 
evidence  is  strong.  You  wished  Billie  was 
dead — you  said  so.  But  to  come  in  the  night 
and  carry  him  off — oh,  Mr.  Wharton!" 

"I  never  robbed  a  hen-roost  in  my  life," 
said  the  indignant  Wharton,  "and  you  know 
it,  Miss  Mosby." 

The  girl  again  averted  her  head.  "It's 
very  strange.  The  night  you  set  that  dead- 
fall, aunt  shut  Billie  in  a  coop.  The  same 
night  the  coop  was  broken,  and  the  thief  was 
tracked  to  the  fence.  It  showered  that  night, 
and  the  tracks  were  plain." 

Wharton  was  horrified.  "And  there  are 
two  loose  palings  in  the  fence  hanging  only 
by  nails.  You  can  see  them  for  yourself," 
added  the  girl. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,  Nellie!  You  don't 
think  I  took  that  vile  rooster?" 

"No-o-o — ,  not  if  you  say  you  didn't." 

"And  you'll  tell  your  aunt  I  didn't?" 

"Yes,  but  she  won't  believe  you.  Aunt 
says  anybody  who  will  steal  will  lie." 


JWr**  JHcJtluttttV*  Mooster  161 


Wharton  meditated.  "And  I'm  not  to 
come  to  the  house  any  more  after  this?" 

44  'Come  to  the  house!'  Why,  if  I'm  caught 
speaking  to  you,  I  shall  lose  my  next  quar- 
ter's allowance. " 

"Will  nothing  make  your  aunt  relent?" 
asked  Wharton,  looking  up  in  despair. 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she  might,  if  you 
proved  an  ali — alibi." 

"That  some  one  else  took  the  fowl?" 

"Yes;  and  if  you  restored  Billie  unhurt  to 
her  arms  she'd  give  anything  you  asked  for." 

"Even  her  niece's  hand  in  marriage?" 

The  girl  blushed,  and  the  man  looked  at  her 
adoringly  and  loved  her  more  than  ever. 

"I  know  what  I'll  do,"  said  Wharton;  "I'll 
order  a  white  leghorn  from  Mobile,  and  Mrs. 
McMurtrie  won't  know  the  difference." 

"Aunt  Sophronia  not  know  the  difference!" 
cried  Nellie.  "Why,  she  hatched  Billie  in  an 
incubator,  and  raised  him  by  hand.  She 
knows  his  every  feather." 

When  Wharton  parted  with  his  inamorata 
he  fell  into  a  brown  study.  How  absurd  it 
was  that  his  romance  should  be  entangled  with 
the  fate  of  an  old  white  rooster!  But  it  was 
the  way  of  life,  in  which  the  absurd  and  the 
sentimental,  the  trivial  and  the  important  are 


162  &la6ama  g&t\tty% 


inextricably  blended.  Did  not  the  great 
Napoleon  lose  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  and  blur 
the  star  of  his  destiny,  by  a  fit  of  indigestion, 
caused  by  a  surfeit  of  cold  mutton?  The  map 
of  Europe  changed  by  a  sheep! 

After  tea  the  young  man's  frame  of  mind 
was  lamentable,  and  he  began  to  heap  obloquy 
upon  gardening,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that 
but  for  his  avocation  he  might  never  have 
met  Nellie.  He  was  seated  in  the  summer- 
house  where  he  could  watch  the  light  in  her 
window.  The  perfume  of  the  magnolias  from 
Mrs.  McMurtrie's  blended  with  the  fragrance 
of  honeysuckles  overhead  to  make  the  May 
night  balmy.  How  long  was  his  reverie  he 
did  not  know.  His  musing  was  at  length 
broken  by  the  abrupt  silence  of  the  mocking- 
bird. The  bird  was  hushed  by  voices  and 
footsteps  of  some  boys  from  a  boarding-school 
near  the  town. 

"Who  lives  here?" 

The  words  rang  clearly  in  the  night  air. 

4  4  New  man  named  Wharton.  Next  place 
is  where  we  hooked  a  rooster  Saturday 
night." 

Wharton  started,  and  then  sat  rigid,  tingling 
with  interest. 

4  4  We  swapped  him  with  a  negro  for  two  fat 


pullets,  and  the  negro  cooked  the  pullets  for 
us." 

"Were  they  good?" 

"You  bet!  But  he  swindled  us.  He  sold 
that  rooster  to  old  Grimsby,  the  chicken 
breeder,  for  two  dollars.  'Twas  a  pure- 
blooded  leghorn. " 

The  boyish  voices  faded  down  the  street. 

Next  day  Wharton  overtook  Nellie  a  second 
time,  when  returning  from  the  village. 

"Miss  Nellie,  I've  found  the  rooster." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wharton!    Alive  or  dead?" 

"Alive." 

Then  the  lawyer  told  his  sweetheart  of  the 
intercepted  conversation  between  the  two 
boarding-school  lads,  and  also  of  an  interview 
with  Grimsby  not  yet  narrated. 

"And  you've  really  seen  Billie?"  asked  the 
girl,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"Yes." 

"When  are  you  going  to  bring  him  to  Aunt 
Sophronia?" 

"I'm  afraid  I've  bungled.  As  soon  as  I 
recognized  the  fowl  I  offered  ten  dollars  for 
him,  and — " 

"Did  you  offer  ten  dollars  for  a  rooster?" 
interrupted  the  girl. 

"Of  course.     Ten  dollars!     Why,  I'd  go 


164  aiafiama  %%vtt%t& 


through  fire  and  water  for  you,  Nellie.  But 
practically,  I  admit,  it  was  a  mistake,  for 
when  Grimsby  saw  I  wanted  the  fowl  badly  he 
asked  twice  the  money.  Then  when  I  told 
him  the  bird  belonged  to  some  one  I  knew, 
and  had  been  stolen,  he  thought  I  was  try- 
ing to  'do'  him;  he  grew  angry  and  refused 
to  sell  at  any  price.  Thereupon  I  got  as 
mad  as  blazes,  and  was  ordered  from  the 
place." 

"You  did  make  a  muss  of  it,  didn't 
you?" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Wharton. 

It  was  growing  dark,  and  they  approached 
Mrs.  McMurtrie's  gate. 

The  girl  entered  and  leaned  over  in  deep 
thought.  Then  looking  up,  she  said:  "I 
know  what  you  will  do  with  your  tiresome 
law.  You'll  garnishee,  or  foreclose,  or  file  a 
bill  on  Grimsby,  and  then  it  will  get  in  chan- 
cery, and  we'll  both  be  gray-headed,  and  Billie 
dead  of  old  age,  before  it's  all  ended.  Oh,  I 
know  what  I'd  do  if  I  wasn't  a  girl." 

"What  would  you  do?"  said  Wharton. 

"Why,  I'd  go  to  Grimsby's  to-night  at 
twelve  o'clock  and  bring  Billie  home." 

"Well,  I'll  not  do  it." 

"Because  you  are  afraid,"  said  the  girl 


JBtra*  Mtffluxtxh's  Wioozttx  165 


quickly.  "You're  afraid  of  the  dog,  or  that 
Grimsby  may  shoot  you;  and  yet  you  said 
you'd  go  through  fire  and  water  for  me." 

"So  I  would;  but  I  won't  turn  thief  and  rob 
a  hen-roost,"  exclaimed  Wharton. 

4  4  4  Turn  thief!  Rob  a  hen-roost!'  "  the  girl 
returned,  her  eyes  flashing  through  the  dark. 
44Is  it  robbery  to  restore  my  aunt's  property 
that  you  caused  to  be  stolen?  No;  it  isn't 
that.    You  don't  care  for  me." 

She  paused  to  catch  her  breath,  and  looked 
as  if  she  would  speak  again,  but  she  thought 
better  of  it,  and  her  little  boot-heels  went 
clicking  angrily  up  the  brick  walk  to  the 
house.  The  next  moment  the  door  closed, 
and  Wharton  was  left  alone  with  the  stars. 

Wharton  was  no  coward,  and  when  he  said 
that  he  would  go  through  fire  and  water  for 
Nellie  he  meant  it.  But  rob  a  hen-roost  and 
so  make  himself  ridiculous — never!  More- 
over, he  shrewdly  suspected  that  the  young 
woman  wished  to  test  the  extent  of  her  power 
over  him.  If  he  resisted  her,  and  attained  the 
desired  result  in  another  way,  she  would  love 
him  just  as  well,  and  more. 

After  cudgelling  his  brain  all  night  the  fol- 
lowing note  was  the  outcome  in  the  morning, 
and  he  dispatched  it  by  a  little  pickaninny. 


166  aiafiama  Sfeetcfje^ 


Dear  Mrs.  McMurtrie:  I  have  succeeded  in  tra- 
cing the  valuable  leghorn  of  which  you  were  robbed 
last  Saturday  night.  After  passing  through  several 
hands  it  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a  poultry-fancier.  The 
man  refuses  to  surrender  him  to  me,  or  the  bird  would 
now  be  restored  to  you.  If  you  will  consent  to  ac- 
company me  and  identify  the  fowl,  I  do  not  think 
there  will  be  any  trouble  in  obtaining  your  own. 

Shall  I  call  for  you  at  eleven  A.  m.? 

Respectfully  yours, 

Frank  Wharton. 

The  reply  was  speedy  and  terse. 

Mr.  Wharton. 
Dear  Sir:  Come  at  eleven. 

Very  truly, 

Sophronia  McMurtrie. 

The  expedition  to  Grimsby  and  its  result 
may  be,  perhaps,  best  given  in  the  words  of 
Wharton  to  Stevens  next  day.  In  filling  in 
the  hiatus  since  their  last  meeting,  the  young 
lawyer  came  to  the  drive. 

"Mrs.  McMurtrie  sat  up  in  the  carriage  like 
a  pair  of  red  steelyards  draped  in  black.  If 
she  was  awe-inspiring  in  plain  spectacles  and  a 
brown  sunbonnet,  picture  her,  Jack,  in  gold- 
rimmed  pince-nez  and  a  poke!  She  didn't 
speak  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  then  said  she  to 
me,  suddenly,  'Who  is  this  receiver  of  stolen 
property?' 

"  'Excuse  me,'  said  I;  'I  fear  my  brief  note 


JBlrs,  Mtffluxtxit'*  lEtoostn  167 


conveyed  an  erroneous  impression.  Mr. 
Grimsby  bought  the  fowl  of  a  negro.' 

44  4Bought  it  of  a  negro,  did  he? — and  at 
night,  I  presume.  You  haven't  helped  mat- 
ters, Mr.  Wharton,'  and  she  glared." 

44 Was  there  anything  of  a  scrap  at  Grims- 
by's?" asked  Stevens. 

4 4 Lord  bless  you,  no!  Grimsby  went  down 
before  her  like  a  man  of  straw.  She  identified 
the  fowl  by  a  bit  of  red  yarn  tied  under  the 
neck  feathers.  Grimsby  tried  to  apologize 
and  explain,  but  she  cut  him  short  and  stalked 
off  with  the  rooster." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

4 4 Surely,  that  isn't  all,"  said  Stevens. 

44 Well — yes;  we  did  patch  up  matters  on 
the  way  back,"  admitted  Wharton,  sheepishly. 
Then,  picking  up  courage,  he  said,  4  4  Perhaps 
it's  throwing  bouquets  at  myself  to  say  it,  but 
I  think  I  displayed  tact." 

44What  did  you  say?" 

44 Nothing.  I  tried  to  look  pleasant,  and 
waited  for  Mrs.  McMurtrie  to  open  the  ball. 
For  a  while  she  sat  smoothing  the  rooster's 
feathers,  and  the  operation  seemed  to  soothe 
her.  Finally  she  looked  up  and  said:  4 1 
may  have  done  wrong,  Mr.  Wharton,  in  har- 
boring an  unjust  suspicion.' 


168  aialiama  SfcetcfKS 


44  4Don't  mention  it,  I  beg  of  you/  said  I. 
4 1  realize,  Mrs.  McMurtrie,  that  my  conduct 
has  been  most  irritating/ 

4  4  4  Quite  true;  and  when  you  built  that  dead- 
fall for  the  rabbit  without  considering  Billie's 
curiosity — ' 

4  4  4  Ah,  Mrs.  McMurtrie/  laughed  I,  very 
genially,  4 that  was  merely  a  bluff/ 

4<  4A  what?' 

4  4  4  A  bluff — a  sham — the  log  in  falling  would 
have  caught  on  a  brick.  It  couldn't  have 
crushed  an  egg!'  " 

4 4 So  you  buried  the  hatchet,"  said  Stevens. 

"Out  of  sight." 

44How  about  the  avocation?" 

"Would  you  believe  it,  Jack,  Mrs.  McMurtrie 
proposed  that  we  divide  the  expense  of  a  wire- 
netting  above  the  fence!  I  told  her  I'd  be 
proud  to  pay  the  whole." 

44And  Nellie?" 

4 4 We  are  to  be  married  in  October." 


THE  MAID  OF  JASMINDALE 


THE  MAID  OF  JASMINDALE 


IT  was  early  spring  in  West  Alabama,  in  the 
year  1865.  Two  Confederate  soldiers  in 
a  dilapidated  buggy,  drawn  by  a  horse  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  vehicle, 
rattled  along  a  winding  plantation  road.  The 
sun  was  just  setting,  and  the  slanting  rays, 
which  had  slowly  climbed  the  red-brown 
trunks  of  the  pine-trees,  through  which  the 
roadway  wound,  now  lingered  caressingly  in 
their  gnarled  and  twisted  tops. 

At  times,  along  the  winding  lane,  the  occu- 
pants of  the  buggy  detected  on  the  spicy 
breath  of  the  pines  sweet  scents  of  more  qual- 
ity, which  betokened  that  here  and  there  a 
cluster  of  wild  honeysuckle  or  a  yellow  jas- 
mine bell  was  already  ablow;  for  there  are 
many  wild  flowers  in  Alabama  that  come 
before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take  even  the 
winds  of  February  with  beauty. 

No  sound  of  war  had  ever  floated  down  this 
woodland  way.    Migratory  birds,  like  field- 
larks  and  robins,  may  have  marvelled  to  each 
171 


172  aiafiama  Sftetcfjeg 


other  at  the  roar  of  the  cannon  and  the  smoke 
of  battle  they  had  chanced  to  hear  and  see  on 
their  southward  way,  but  the  cotton-tailed 
rabbit  that  leaped  into  the  broom-sedge,  and 
the  gray  squirrel  that  sprang  up  the  pine 
trunk  at  the  creak  of  the  passing  vehicle,  knew 
naught  of  such  things;  or  if  they  perceived 
any  change  in  the  order  of  the  universe,  it 
was  to  note  with  pleasure  that  sudden  death 
had  become  less  frequent  among  their  furry 
brethren,  or  to  congratulate  themselves  on  the 
increase  of  longevity  among  all  feathered  and 
four-footed  wild  creatures. 

In  the  drowsy  peace  and  quietness  of  this 
old  plantation  highway,  shaded  by  pines  and 
fringed  with  sassafras — a  drowsy  quietness 
that  appealed  to  every  sense — the  worn  Con- 
federate gray  of  the  two  soldiers  seemed  like 
an  echo  trom  the  battle-fields  far  away;  and 
this  hint  of  war,  which  at  first  appeared  out  of 
harmony  with  the  peaceful  scene,  when  viewed 
more  closely  added  a  touch  of  pathos  which 
removed  all  sense  of  discord.  The  man  who 
drove  used  but  one  hand,  for  his  left  sleeve 
hung  empty;  while  his  comrade  wore  a  ban- 
dage about  his  left  shoulder  and  arm.  It  was 
clear  that  fate  had  put  one  of  them  under 
bond  to  keep  the  peace  for  a  season  at  least, 


W$z  £Ba\b  of  gfasmmtjale  173 


while  the  other  would  never  again  seek  the 
bubble  reputation  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 

At  the  end  of  one  of  the  conversational 
pauses  which  come  frequently  to  those  who 
have  travelled  a  long  distance  together  and  are 
weary,  the  man  with  one  arm,  giving  the  horse 
a  gentle  slap  with  the  reins,  addressed  his 
companion: 

"Well,  Tom,  we  are  almost  there.  When 
we  turn  the  next  curve  we  shall  see  the  house, 
or,  at  least,  the  lights. 99 

"Do  you  think  we're  expected?"  asked  the 
other. 

"I  doubt  it.  I  wrote  the  day  before  we  left 
the  hospital,  but  if  the  letter  had  been  re- 
ceived, my  father  would  have  met  us  at 
Gainesville ;  or  he  would  have  sent  some  one. 99 

Urging  the  old  horse  forward  with  another 
slight  blow, — he  had  not  the  heart  to  use  the 
whip  to  an  animal  who  had  spent  his  strength 
in  the  army, — he  continued:  "What  do  you 
suppose  I'm  thinking  of,  Tom?" 

"Can't  imagine,  Jack.  Your  mind  should 
be  bubbling  with  the  happy  thought  that  in  a 
very  few  minutes  you  will  see  your  father, 
mother,  and  sister  after  an  absence  of  three 
years." 

"Of  course  all  that  was  in  my  mind;  but  at 


i74  aiatmma  Sfutcfjes 


the  moment  I  was  comparing  this  home- 
coming with  the  one  I  pictured  when  I  en- 
listed." 

A  sad  look  passed  over  his  face — a  face 
which  nature  had  meant  for  merriment,  not 
gloom,  in  proof  of  which  a  smile  soon  followed. 
But  he  could  not  keep  a  slight  ring  of  bitter- 
ness out  of  his  voice  as  he  exclaimed:  * 4 Take 
your  time,  old  horse,  you  needn't  hurry;  as 
usual,  second  thoughts  are  wisest.  I  prefer 
that  this  triumphal  chariot  should  arrive  at  my 
ancestral  home  under  cover  of  darkness. 99 

His  friend  gave  him  a  quick  look.  "I 
think  you  are  very  fortunate  in  many  regards. 
You  have  at  least  a  home  to  which  you  can 
come,  and  a  family  there  to  welcome  you. 
Look  at  my  case.  My  home  is  beyond  the 
lines,  and  I  haven't  heard  from  it  in  six 
months. 99 

Dropping  the  reins  for  a  moment  to  adjust 
his  hat,  which  had  been  displaced  by  a  jolt 
over  a  projecting  pine  root,  the  young  veteran, 
whose  surname  was  Ellis,  said  with  a  sigh:  "I 
wonder  where  the  battery  is  to-night,  and  what 
the  boys  are  doing!"  He  looked  at  his  empty 
sleeve.  u  'Tisn't  likely  I'll  ever  see  the  dear 
old  guns  again,  and  give  them  pet  names,  God 
bless  'em!     But  look,  Tom,  yonder  are  the 


W$z  JKafo  of  gagmmfcale  175 


lights. "  And  forgetful  of  his  recent  mood  he 
put  the  old  horse  to  his  speed. 

The  buggy  had  emerged  from  the  pines, 
and  now  wound  along  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
On  the  left  rose  the  dark  trees,  like  a  great, 
shadowy  wall.  On  the  right,  a  moss-grown 
rail  fence  zigzagged  along  the  lane,  its  numer- 
ous corners  filled  with  alder  shrubs,  black- 
berry bushes,  and  wild  plum-trees.  The  last 
were  in  full  flower,  and  over  their  pallid  and 
fragrant  sprays  gray  moths  hovered,  intent  to 
glean  such  sweets  as  were  left  them  by  the 
wild  bees,  pirates  of  the  upper  blue,  who  had 
rifled  the  tiny  blossoms  and  fled  to  their  secret 
cave  in  the  old  swamp-gum. 

Beyond  the  rail  fence  a  vast  cotton-field, 
whose  brown  surface  had  been  broken  by  the 
plough,  but  was  not  yet  planted,  stretched 
toward  the  west,  and  blent  on  the  horizon 
with  a  cypress  swamp  whose  tall  treetops 
serrated  the  pale  pink  sky  like  a  jagged 
silhouette. 

During  the  last  ten  minutes  the  lights  of 
home,  which  had  greeted  Ellis's  eyes  with  a 
brightness  scarce  exceeding  that  of  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  grew  brighter  and  steadier,  and  soon 
the  house  began  to  outline  itself  through  the 
trees.    It  was  built  in  the  colonnaded  style, 


176  aUafiama  Stfutcfjes 


and  the  columns  gleamed  white  in  the  star- 
light. As  Ellis  led  his  companion  up  the 
winding  walk,  the  fragrance  ot  jonquils,  hya- 
cinths, and  violets  met  them  at  every  turn. 
The  odor  of  the  flowers  was  quite  in  harmony 
with  what  was  passing  in  Tom  Vance's  mind. 
Had  Ellis  asked  him  a  few  moments  ago  for 
his  thoughts  he  would  doubtless  have  parried 
the  question,  for  he  was  thinking  of  Jack's 
sister,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whom 
his  fancy  had  painted  a  picture  very  pleasing 
to  him. 

At  night,  by  the  smoldering  camp-fire, 
when  the  other  men  were  asleep,  the  two  men 
had  often  talked  of  their  homes;  and  Jack 
had  frequently  spoken  of  his  sister.  Some- 
times he  had  read  to  Vance  parts  of  her  letters 
by  the  little  flames  that  leaped  up  as  the  half- 
burned  logs  fell  together.  So  that  now,  as 
he  walked  up  the  gravelled  way,  the  breath  of 
the  flowers  made  his  heart  beat  faster.  Like 
incense  floating  round  a  shrine,  it  seemed  to 
warn  him  of  his  nearness  to  the  deity  of  his 
dreams ;  and  the  grating  of  the  pebbles  beneath 
his  boot  heels  was  needed  to  bring  his  excited 
fancy  back  to  a  realization  of  earth. 

They  had  passed  beneath  a  budding  rose- 
vine  which  swayed  between  the  white  columns, 


W$t  JETaft  of  gasmmtrale  177 


and  entered  the  wide  hall  before  they  were 
discovered.  Their  presence  was  announced 
by  a  large  brown  dog,  which  leaped  toward 
Ellis  with  a  joyous  bark.  Half  a  minute  later 
two  slender  women  were  clinging  to  him,  and 
laughing  and  sobbing  at  the  same  time,  while 
a  tall  old  man,  with  tear-lit  eyes,  wrung  his 
hand.  Vance  remained  in  the  background, 
unwilling  to  intrude  even  his  presence  upon 
a  meeting  in  which  grief  and  joy  were  patheti- 
cally mingled.  By  and  by  there  came  a  lull, 
and  Ellis  turned:  "Where  are  you,  Tom? 
Father,  mother,  Annie,  this  is  my  comrade, 
Tom  Vance. 99 

Annie  Ellis  was  as  lithe  as  a  swamp-willow. 
She  had  little  color.  Her  skin  was  not  tinted 
like  the  rose;  it  bore  more  resemblance  in  its 
healthy  paleness  to  the  milk-white  petals  of 
the  bay-flowers.  Her  light-brown  hair  rippled 
over  her  brow,  and  when  touched  by  the  sun- 
light, revealed  changeful  glints  of  gold.  She 
had  long,  curling  lashes,  and  her  eyes  were  as 
soft  as  brown  velvet;  yet  they  were  full  of 
light  when  she  smiled.  Her  lips  were  the  hue 
of  pomegranate  blossoms.  But  her  chief 
charm  was  a  dimple  on  her  cheek.  When  her 
face  was  in  repose,  no  one  would  suspect  its 
existence.    To  Vance  it  did  not  seem  like  an 


178  aiafiama  &kttti\t$ 


ordinary  dimple.  The  first  time  he  saw  it  he 
felt  a  peculiar  thrill.  Afterwards  he  kept  try- 
ing to  bring  the  dimple  back;  but  it  did  not 
appear  every  time  its  owner  smiled.  She 
seemed  to  keep  it  for  special  moments. 

For  the  first  few  days  after  their  arrival, 
Mrs.  Ellis  could  not  see  enough  of  Jack. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  she  reconciled  her- 
self to  the  loss  of  his  arm ;  and  often  her  eyes 
would  fill  when  she  looked  at  his  empty 
sleeve;  but  she  never  alluded  to  the  matter  in 
Jack's  presence. 

In  consequence  of  this  tender  monopoly, 
Vance  fell  to  her  daughter's  care,  and  the 
arrangement  was  evidently  satisfactory. 
Sometimes  the  young  soldier  leaned  over  the 
piano  while  the  girl  sang  to  him,  "Lorena," 
4 4 Ever  of  Thee,"  and  other  ballads  of  a  senti- 
mental turn;  sometimes  they  strolled  about  the 
old  flower-garden  among  the  roses  and  lilacs. 
Often  in  the  morning  they  wandered  farther, 
and  walked  in  the  woods  beneath  the  long- 
leafed  pines,  many  of  which  rose  fifty  feet 
without  a  branch,  and  when  the  south  wind 
stirred  the  lofty  tops  immense  cones  would 
fall  swishing  through  the  air,  to  bound  on  the 
elastic  carpet  of  pine-needles. 

Frequently  they  went  fishing  in  the  creek. 


Cf)e  iftftafo  of  gaammtiale  179 


On  these  occasions  they  always  took  Jim,  the 
twelve-year-old  son  of  Sophy,  the  cook,  to 
carry  the  bait  and  bait  the  hooks.  Jim  was 
as  black  as  ebony.  He  never  wore  a  hat,  and 
when  he  smiled,  which  was  often,  his  big 
white  teeth  gleamed  like  piano-keys.  His 
mother  kept  his  face  greased  till  it  shone. 

"I  do  'spise  a  ash-faced  nigger, "  said 
Sophy. 

What  Jim  thought  of  these  fishing  expe- 
ditions can  be  learned  from  his  indignant 
account  to  his  mother. 

"I  tell  yer  de  trufe,  mammy,  I's  des  tired 
o'  gwine  fishin'  wid  Marse  Tom  an'  Miss 
Annie.  Dey  don'  ketch  no  fish.  See  dis 
heah  string  o'  perch?  I  cotch  'em,  ever'  one. 
Miss  Annie  she  know  how  ter  fish  des  as  well 
as  I  does,  but  she  am'  cotch  a  fish  sence 
Marse  Tom  been  heah.  Dat's  de  Gord's 
trufe!  Dis  de  way  dey  do,  mammy.  When 
dey  starts  ter  de  creek  dey  walks  so  slow,  look 
lak  dey  don'  keer  whe'r  dey  gits  dar  or  no. 

4  4  Den  when  we  comes  ter  de  creek  dey  say, 
4 Jim,  bait  de  hooks.'  Den  when  I  gits  a 
wu'm  out  de  gourd,  and  stick  de  p'int  o'  de 
hook  in  him,  Miss  Annie  she  hollers,  she  do, 
an'  puts  her  han's  ober  her  eyes.  Ain'  dat 
what  wu'ms  is  made  for,  mammy?    Den  she 


180  aiafiama  £ttrtd)eg 


pull  her  han's  down  slow  lak,  an'  look  at  Marse 
Tom  dis  way.  An  Marse  Tom  he  look  at 
Miss  Annie. 

"Den  when  dey  draps  de  lines  in  de  creek, 
'tain'  no  time  fo'  Marse  Tom  got  his  line  all 
tang'ul  up  wid  Miss  Annie's,  an'  dey  hatter 
pick  out  de  knot.  Dey  don'  lemme  do  dat. 
Dey  do  dat  deyselves;  an'  fas'  as  Miss  Annie 
pick  out  one  knot,  Marse  Tom  he  got  anne'r 
one  made. 

"Den  dey  gits  tired  o'  fishing  an'  say,  'Jim, 
you  can  fish.'  An  dey  goes  off  a-pickin'  vi'- 
lets  an*  sittin'  on  lorgs. " 

In  the  afternoon  the  young  girl  and  the 
soldier  sat  in  the  old  summer-house  under  the 
myrtles.  Annie  would  sew,  and  Vance  would 
read  to  her  from  Lalla  Rookh,  while  the  coo- 
ing of  the  doves  in  the  pines  and  the  humming 
of  the  bees  formed  a  fitting  accompaniment 
to  Moore's  softly  flowing  lines.  Cupid  never 
pities  wounded  soldiers;  such  are  his  favorite 
game.  The  wound  in  his  shoulder  healed 
rapidly,  but  a  deeper  wound  opened  in  the 
Kentuckian's  heart. 

This  idyllic  existence  had  lasted  several 
weeks,  when  one  day  there  came  a  change. 
It  was  as  if  a  discordant  string  had  been 
touched  in  the  flow  of  a  sweet  melody,  and 


€f)e  JSlattf  of  gasmmtiale  181 


the  discord,  instead  of  dying  away,  gradually 
became  dominant.  The  dimple  did  not  appear 
for  a  whole  week,  and  the  smile  became  less 
and  less  frequent.  But  all  was  so  gradual 
there  was  no  savor  of  discourtesy.  Vance 
tried  to  brush  away  the  cloud  with  a  little  gift 
of  flowers.  An  hour  later  he  saw  his  poor 
blossoms  exhaling  their  deserted  fragrance 
on  a  window-seat.  When  this  simple  device 
failed,  his  helplessness  was  piteous.  Had  he 
been  less  of  a  lover  and  more  of  a  beau,  he 
would  have  thought  of  a  dozen  ways  of  bring- 
ing about  an  explanation.  Without  appearing 
to  avoid  him,  she  gradually  saw  less  of  him. 
It  could  not  be  accidental,  for  accidents  sel- 
dom occur  in  such  disagreeable  consecutive- 
ness.  Each  day  she  seemed  to  grow  farther 
away  from  him.  But  he  did  not  lack  society. 
Mr.  Ellis  took  him  on  long  drives  over  the 
winding  plantation  roads.  Mrs.  Ellis,  having 
petted  Jack  to  her  heart's  content,  carried 
Vance  on  tours  of  her  poultry-yard,  or  gave 
him  instruction  in  rose  culture.  He  tried  to 
respond  appreciatively  to  her  little  attentions, 
and  to  manifest  the  proper  interest  by  occa- 
sional questions.  But  when  he  asked  Mrs. 
Ellis  what  was  the  best  time  for  pruning  hens, 
and  what  she  did  for  her  roses  when  they  took 


1 82  aiatmma  Sftetcfjeg 


the  gapes,  his  kind  hostess  was  bewildered. 
She  confided  to  her  daughter  that  she  feared 
the  hardships  of  war,  and  his  wound,  had 
affected  Vance's  brain. 

4 4 Poor  fellow !"  she  sighed.  "It  is  much 
better  to  lose  an  arm." 

4  4  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his  Kentucky 
sweetheart,' '  said  Miss  Ellis.  4 4 The  Blue 
Grass  girls  are  said  to  be  very  beautiful." 

Meanwhile  Vance  kicked  over  a  flower-pot, 
and  muttered  something  under  his  breath. 
He  was  a  man  of  action,  and  never  swore  when 
he  knew  what  to  do.  But  now  he  was  puz- 
zled, and  had  sought  solitude  and  the  open 
air  to  think  it  all  out.  The  woman  he  loved 
was  acting  in  the  most  incomprehensible  and 
exasperating  manner.  What  had  he  done  to 
offend  her?  What  had  he  left  undone?  He 
gave  it  up,  and  dropped  into  the  rustic  seat 
under  the  cedar-tree,  found  an  easy  position 
for  his  shoulder,  and  as  his  eyes  fell  on  his 
old  gray  coat  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  impa- 
tience. 

Then  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
drew  out  something.  It  was  not  a  letter,  nor 
a  photograph,  but  a  little  tobacco-pouch  she 
had  made  him  in  the  blissful  days  when  she 
was  all  smiles  and  sunshine.    It  was  made  of 


Cf)e  JHatti  of  gasmmtiale  183 


brown  silk — the  color  of  her  eyes — and  his 
initials  were  worked  in  crimson — the  hue  of 
her  lips.  It  had  smelled  of  violets  when  it 
came  into  his  possession.  He  wondered  if  it 
still  retained  its  fragrance!  No;  the  perfume 
had  fled  with  her  favor,  and  the  scent  of  the 
tobacco  made  him  sneeze.  He  filled  his  cob- 
pipe,  struck  a  Confederate-made  sulphur 
match.  It  broke.  More  successful  with 
another,  he  puffed  rapidly  at  first,  then  slower, 
and  gazed  over  the  pine-covered  Alabama 
hills,  down  the  river,  where  the  pines  blended 
with  the  cypress-trees  till  all  were  veiled  on 
the  horizon  in  a  purple  mist.  Presently  a 
resolute  expression  came  on  his  face.  He 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  on  his  boot 
heel,  and  put  his  pipe  away.  Then  he  took  a 
pencil  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  on  a  slip  of 
paper: 

Dear  Miss  Ellis: 

I  would  like  much  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments 
in  the  summer-house  under  the  myrtles  at  12  o'clock. 
If  you  will  kindly  come  I  shall  be  very  grateful. 

Yours  faithfully,      T.  V. 

Calling  Jim,  who  was  not  far  away,  he  sent 
the  note.    By  and  by  the  boy  came  back. 

"Did  you  give  the  note  to  Miss  Ellis?"  said 
Vance. 


184  aiafiama  Sfcetcf)^ 


"Yes,  sah;  I  give  her  de  letter." 
"What  did  she  say,  Jim?" 
"Miss   Annie   didn'    say   nothing  Marse 
Tom." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

Jim  scratched  his  head.  "Well,  sah,  fus' 
she  tuck  de  letter  an'  onwrap  it.  Den  she 
read  it,  an*  her  han'  'gun  ter  trimble.  Den 
she  squez  de  letter  in  one  han'  an'  guv  a  long 
breaf.  Den  she  look  way  off  lak  she  seed 
some'h'n  comin\" 

"That  will  do,  Jim." 

Vance  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  just  a 
quarter  past  eleven.  He  directed  his  steps 
toward  the  myrtles. 

Jim  dug  his  big  toe  in  the  ground  and 
looked  after  him.  "Marse  Tom  an'  Miss 
does  mighty  curis.  Dat's  de  Gord's  trufe! 
Las'  week  dey  couldn'  cotch  no  fish  for  talking 
an'  dis  week  Marse  Tom  he  write  a  letter  to 
Miss  Annie,  an*  dey  livin'  in  de  same  house, 
an'  eatin'  toge'er  three  times  a  day.  Won'er 
what  dey  gwine  do  nex*  week!" 

The  negroes  on  the  plantation  were  very 
proud  of  their  young  mistress.  They  watched 
the  progress  of  affairs  with  keen  interest,  and 
Vance  met  their  approval,  though  they 
deemed  no  one  quite  worthy  of  her.    Old  Ben, 


€f)e  jBTafo  of  gaamtntiale  185 


the  gardener,  Sophy,  the  cook,  and  Melinda, 
the  house-girl,  discussed  the  situation  in  the 
kitchen. 

44  'Spec  we  gwine  have  a  weddin'  on  dis 
plantation  'fore  long.  Look  lak  young  Miss 
is  made  up  her  mind  dis  time,"  said  old  Ben, 
leaning  on  his  hoe  by  the  kitchen  door. 

4401e  man,  you's  way  behine  the  times," 
said  Sophy,  laying  in  a  deep  dish  the  founda- 
tion of  a  chicken  pie,  "Dat's  de  way  hit 
looked  ter  me,  too,  las'  week.  But  de  win's 
done  changed.  'Pears  ter  me  now  young 
Miss  is  gwine  serve  Marse  Vance  lak  she  done 
all  de  rest  o'  de  young  men.  He  gwine  git 
his  walkin'  papers  'fore  long,  ef  he  ain'  already 
got  'em.  Marse  Vance  sholy  do  look  sorrow- 
ful." 

"I  knows  ever'thing  what's  gwine  on  in  de 
big  house,"  said  Lindy.  "But  I  don'  tell  all 
I  knows,"  she  added,  looking  at  Sophy. 

"Huh!"  sniffed  Sophy,  contemptuously, 
"you  allers  knows  more'n  de  trufe." 

Lindy's  massive  lips  protruded  in  a  warlike 
manner,  and  old  Ben  hastened  to  interpose. 
4  4  Let  de  gal  talk  ef  she  wanter,  ole  woman. 
Don't  yer  mine  her,  Lindy;  words  is  made  fur 
de  spression  o'  knowledge.    Keep  on,  gal." 

The  girl  rolled  the  whites  of  her  eyes  in  the 


186  aiafcama  S&etcfjesi 


direction  of  Sophy  indignantly,  but  encour- 
aged by  the  old  man's  defense,  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  display  her  superior 
information. 

44I  knows  de  day  an*  I  knows  de  hour  when 
de  cloud  'gun  ter  riz, 99  she  began,  solemnly, 
44an'  dis  is  de  very  way:  I  wuz  a-sweepin' 
out  de  big  hall  las'  Sadday  before  breakfus'; 
an'  I  wuz  a  hurryin'  ter  get  thu  'fo'  de  white 
folks  come  down,  when  I  seed  Marse  Jack 
come  out'n  his  room  an'  go  in  Marse  Tom's 
room  a-whistlin'.  He  lef  Marse  Tom's  door 
on  de  crack.  I  could'n  heah  all  dey  say  to 
one  ne'r,  but  I  cotch  some  o'  de  words. 
'Peared  lak  dey  wuz  talkin'  'bout  some  young 
lady  up  in  Kaintucky,  an'  Marse  Jack,  he  wuz 
a-runnin'  Marse  Tom.  I  knows  I  hearn  him 
say  some'h'n  'bout  Katie. 

44Des  'bout  dat  time,  Miss  Annie  she  come 
out'n  her  room  ter'er  en'  o'  de  hall,  an'  she 
walk  down  de  hall  ter  de  top  o'  de  stairs  a 
hummin'  a  chune,  an'  she  look  so  peert,  seem 
lak  she  gwine  ter  dance  ever'  step  she  tuck. 
She  wuz  dressed  in  white,  kaze  hit  was  a  warm 
mornin',  an'  she  had  a  bunch  o'  peach-flowers 
pin  on  her  breas'. 

4  4  Miss  Annie  sholy  did  look  sweet  dat 
mornin'. 


Cf)e  iffitato  of  gamiribaU  187 


"But  when  she  striick  de  top  o'  de  stairs  by 
Marse  Tom's  door  look  lak  a  spell  tuck  her. 
She  must  V  hearn  some'h'n  ter  'stress  her,  for 
she  tu'n  de  color  o'  green  hick'ry  smoke  roun' 
de  eyes.  'Fore  Gord,  I  thought  she  wuz 
gwine  ter  fall,  but  she  cotch  hole  de  banister, 
bless  de  Lord! 

"Hit  sholy  did  look  pitterful  ter  see  dem 
peach-flowers  a-trim'lin  on  her  breas' !  But 
Miss  Annie  she  b'longs  ter  de  quality,  she 
do;  when  she  come  to,  she  walked  down  dem 
stairs  lak  a  queen,  an'  she  laugh  an'  joke  ole 
Marse  at  de  breakfus'  table.  But  dis  nigger 
kep'  her  eyes  sot  on  dem  peach-flowers.  She 
knowed  dey'd  tell  what  wuz  gwine  on  inside." 

Meantime  the  bright  April  day  was  wearing 
on  to  noon.  In  the  summer-house  the  sun- 
beams sifted  through  the  honeysuckles  and 
jasmines,  and  dappled  the  ground  beneath. 
Vance  looked  at  his  watch  for  the  twentieth 
time.  Ten  minutes  to  twelve!  He  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hand,  and  listened  to  the 
drowsy  hum  of  the  bumblebees  that  were  ban- 
queting on  the  jasmine.  Two  mocking-birds 
were  building  a  nest  in  the  vine,  and  flew  back 
and  forth  with  wisps  of  grass  and  dry  sticks. 
He  sat  so  still  they  did  not  heed  him. 

The  happy  birds  gently  shook  the  vine,  and 


188  aiafiama  Sfeetcfjea 


a  jasmine  flower  fell  upon  Vance's  knee.  He 
lifted  it  to  his  face.  The  fragrance  of  the 
flower  appealed  to  him  in  a  singular  manner. 
His  happiness  had  been  as  evanescent  as  the 
beauty  of  the  flower.  The  flutter  of  a  bird's 
wing  had  sent  the  little  bloom  earthward,  and 
something  even  less  tangible  had  marred  the 
melody  of  love  that  had  been  singing  in  his 
heart. 

Perhaps  she  would  not  come!  He  had  not 
thought  of  that.  He  tried  to  think  what  he 
would  do  if  she  did  not  come.  If  they  had 
only  quarrelled !  He  tried  to  gain  hope  from 
proverbs,  especially  the  one  about  true  love's 
never  running  smooth.  He  could  not  make  it 
apply.  Everything  had  run  smoothly,  even 
her  coldness.  Oh,  how  he  wished  this  inde- 
finable something  that  had  come  between  this 
beautiful  girl  and  himself  were  only  a  man! 
How  he  would  like  to  fight  him!  He  could 
not  sit  still.  He  clenched  his  hand  and 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

Annie  Ellis  stood  in  the  door  of  the  sum- 
mer-house. She  smiled  pleasantly  in  response 
to  his  greeting,  and  seated  herself  in  a  rustic 
chair.  In  her  hand  was  a  piece  of  needle- 
work. This  did  not  imply  any  discourtesy;  it 
had  been  agreed  between  them  early  in  their 


J5laft  of  gjaammtiaie 


acquaintance  that  she  should  continue  what- 
ever she  had  in  hand  during  their  meetings. 
He  had  delighted  to  watch  her  hands.  So 
graceful  was  her  sewing  that  the  needle  seemed 
never  to  be  pushed  by  her  dainty  fingers,  but 
rather  to  follow  them  of  its  own  volition.  A 
bit  of  fancy-work  gives  a  woman  an  immense 
advantage  over  a  man.  It  aids  her  in  pre- 
serving the  appearance  of  composure  which 
neither  can  feel.  To-day  the  young  man 
viewed  the  needlework  with  positive  dislike. 
That,  and  the  girl's  deceptive  calmness,  ap- 
peared to  imply  that  everything  in  their 
mutual  relations  was  as  it  should  be,  and 
seemed  to  strengthen  the  horrid  web  on  whose 
breaking  Vance  felt  that  his  happiness  de- 
pended. After  a  moment's  silence  she  raised 
her  eyes  inquiringly.  Vance  had  remained 
standing.  He  had  not  thought  what  he  was 
going  to  say.    He  never  did. 

"Miss  Ellis,  there's  something  wrong.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.    But  I  must  know." 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly.  She  had  never 
seen  him  like  this  before. 

"I  did  not  think  a  man  could  be  as  happy 
as  I  have  been  at  Jasmindale.  I  ought  to 
have  known  it  could  not  last." 

She  did  not  dare  to  look  up  now.    How  glad 


190  aiatiama  i&tutcfjeg 


she  was  that  she  had  brought  her  needle- 
work! She  bent  her  head  above  it,  and  re- 
mained silent. 

"When  Jack  and  I  were  lying  around  the 
camp-fire  at  night,  and  the  other  men  were 
sleeping,  we  used  to  talk  to  each  other  of  our 
homes;  Jack  would  tell  me  of  Jasmindale,  and 
I  would  speak  of  Oaklands. " 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  continued:  "I 
knew  that  Jack's  home  was  beautiful,  but  I 
have  found  it  more  beautiful  than  I  had  pic- 
tured; and  it  is  you  who  have  made  it  so. 99 

The  needle  began  to  lose  its  way. 

"Miss  Ellis,  Jasmindale  has  been  like  a  bit 
of  heaven  till  a  week  ago.  The  stars  shone 
fairer,  and  the  flowers  were  more  fragrant, 
than  any  I  had  ever  known,  and  I  loved  the 
light  and  sweetness  because  they  seemed  re- 
flected from  you.  But  a  week  ago  something 
began  to  come  between  us — something — I 
don't  know  what — as  intangible  as  a  shadow. 
And  now  I  am  more  unhappy  than  I  can 
say." 

The  girl  let  her  embroidery  fall,  and  tried 
to  steady  herself,  but  her  heart  beat  so  rapidly 
she  could  hardly  think.  It  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  she  could  be  mistaken.  She  wished 
now  that  she  had  spoken  to  Jack,  but  her 


W$z  JBtaft  of  gfaismtntrale  191 


pride  had  not  let  her.  Besides,  she  had  feared 
Jack's  raillery. 

"Mr.  Vance/ '  she  began,  in  a  strange  little 
voice, — it  did  not  resemble  her  usual  tone, — 
"when  you  told  Jack  of  Oaklands,  did  you 
ever  tell  him  about — " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  Of  course  he  had 
told  Jack;  it  was  Jack's  voice  she  had  over- 
heard. 

"Mr.  Vance,  who  is  Katie?"  The  question 
leaped  from  her  lips  before  she  thought,  and 
her  voice  was  perilously  near  to  tears. 

Vance  wondered  at  the  irrelevant  question. 

"Why — Katie  is  the  name  of  a  cannon  in 
our  battery.  The  boys  used  to  name  the  guns 
for  their  sweethearts.  I  named  my  gun  Katie 
because  I  was  ashamed  to  confess  I  had  no 
sweetheart.  But  I  did  have  one  even  then, 
for  I  dreamed  of  you,  Miss  Ellis,  before  I  ever 
met  you. " 

He  looked  at  the  girl.    He  saw  it  all  now. 

"Annie!"  He  knelt  at  her  side  and  put  his 
arm  around  her.  "And  you  were  jealous  of  a 
gun!" 

And  the  mocking-bird  in  the  jasmine-vine 
above  them  burst  into  a  carol  of  love  to  his 
mate. 


THE  POLITICAL  SPLIT  IN 
OAKVILLE 


THE  POLITICAL  SPLIT  IN 
OAKVILLE 

THERE  was  great  excitement  in  Oakville. 
The  biennial  election  for  mayor  and 
aldermen  ol  the  little  West  Alabama  town  was 
approaching,  and  for  special  reasons  the  com- 
ing contest  was  regarded  as  particularly  im- 
portant to  municipal  welfare.  Even  the  wo- 
men caught  fire  and  talked  politics  at  dinners 
and  balls,  and  it  was  rumored  that  several 
engagements  were  on  the  verge  of  fracture  by 
reason  of  a  difference  in  political  opinion. 

Oakville  always  cast  a  solid  vote  for  Democ- 
racy at  state  and  presidential  elections;  but 
when  a  mayor  and  board  of  aldermen  were  to 
be  chosen,  when  there  was  no  Republican 
opposition  to  be  feared,  the  loyal  Democrats 
of  the  town  deemed  it  no  treason  to  the  glori- 
ous old  party  to  make  what  is  termed  politi- 
cally a  split.  The  candidates  for  mayor  on 
the  present  occasion  were  the  incumbent, 
Colonel  Jackson,  who  had  held  the  office  for 
a  series  of  terms,  and  Charles  Lawton,  a 
i95 


i96  aiafiama  &kttt%t% 


young  lawyer,  who  was  very  popular  in  the 
town;  and  both  were  Democrats. 

A  circumstance  that  always  gave  the  muni- 
cipal election  at  Oakville  a  peculiar  and  pic- 
turesque interest  was  the  existence  of  the 
negro  vote.  The  candidate  who  could  con- 
trol a  majority  of  this  element  was  always 
successful,  and  for  eight  years  Colonel  Jack- 
son had  carried  the  negroes,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  pocket  of  his  voluminous  vest. 

Charles  Lawton,  the  Colonel's  opponent, 
being  unmarried  and  young,  did  not  suffer 
political  ambition  to  interfere  with  a  sweeter 
hope.  Thirty-six  hours  before  election  day 
found  Lawton  on  Judge  Lawrence's  veranda 
making  love  to  Miss  Alice,  the  Judge's  only 
daughter;  or  rather  intending  to  make  love 
as  soon  as  the  old  gentleman  had  finished  his 
evening  pipe  and  retired. 

"Well,  Charlie,  who's  going  to  be  mayor?" 
asked  the  Judge,  from  his  arm-chair. 

"Why,  I  am,  Judge." 

"That's  what  a  candidate  should  always  tell 
the  public,  my  boy,  but  before  Alice  and  me 
you  can  lay  by  your  armor.  Honestly,  what 
is  the  latest  from  the  political  front?" 

"Honestly,  Judge,  I  am  gaining  votes  every 
day,  and  I  shall  poll  two-thirds  of  the  white 


&f)e  political  Split  in  ©attbtlle  197 


vote  of  the  town,"  began  Lawton,  though  well 
aware  that  a  political  discussion  would  delay 
the  Judge's  bedtime  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

4 4 Very  good;  but  have  you  discovered  any 
outrageous  abuses  to  reform?  A  new  candi- 
date should  always  pose  as  a  reformer. " 

4 'Certainly,  Judge,  the  town  is  full  of  com- 
plaint.'' 

4 4 List  the  abuses,  the  grievances;  let  us  see 
if  they  are  strong  enough  to  win  votes,"  said 
the  Judge,  through  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

44Well,  to  begin  with  a  small  one,  there's 
the  hog  law.  Under  Colonel  Jackson's  regime 
no  hogs  are  permitted  at  large.  In  the  old 
days  the  poor  man's  pig  waxed  fat  on  the 
acorns  that  fell  from  the  water-oaks  in  the 
autumn  and  the  pusley  that  grew  in  the  spring. 
And  now  it  is  rumored  that  Jackson  is  going 
to  have  a  cow  law  passed." 

44You  can't  down  Jackson  with  the  hog 
law,"  said  the  Judge,  refilling  his  pipe. 

4 4 Oh,  there  are  many  more  abuses!"  claimed 
Lawton,  warming  up. 

4 4 Yes,  indeed,  papa,"  interpolated  Miss 
Alice.    44Charlie,  tell  papa  about  the  licenses. " 

44 Yes,  Judge,  there's  the  question  of  licenses. 
It's  a  fearful  abuse.  Everything  is  licensed. 
You  can't  sell  a  pint  of  chestnuts  on  the  street 


i98  aiafiama  S&etcijea 


without  a  license.  To  keep  in  with  the 
butchers — the  leading  butcher  is  a  saloon- 
keeper—  Jackson  has  passed  a  law  that  no 
countryman  can  bring  meat  into  the  city  and 
offer  it  for  sale  till  ten  a.  m.  without  a  license. 
The  poor  cracker  boy  who  shoots  a  deer  in 
the  hills  cannot  bring  his  venison  to  town  and 
sell  it  till  ten  o'clock.  It's  outrageous.  By 
and  by  there  will  be  a  tax  on  windows,  as  in 
France/' 

44 1  admit  the  grievance/ '  said  the  Judge, 
with  evident  enjoyment;  "but  you  can't  down 
Jackson  with  licenses. " 

44 All  right,  I  can  tell  abuses  all  night." 

4 4 Yes,  indeed,  papa,  if  you  care  to  listen,' ' 
said  Miss  Alice.  The  clock  in  the  hall  had 
just  struck  ten. 

44I'll  mention  only  the  great  ones,"  said 
Lawton,  catching  the  hint.  4  4  The  worst  of 
all  is,  that  Jackson  has  run  the  town  horribly 
in  debt  trying  to  make  a  city  of  it.  Look  at 
that  white  elephant,  the  new  city  hall.  Why, 
it  cost  forty  thousand  dollars,  and  the  town 
had  to  issue  bonds  to  pay  for  it,  and  Jackson 
has  to  levy  a  tax  to  pay  the  interest  on  those 
bonds.    And  what  good  is  the  city  hall?" 

<40  Charlie,  we  have  lovely  cotillons  there!" 
remonstrated  Miss  Alice. 


€f)e  PaWitcal  Split  in  ©aftbtlle  199 


4  4  Yes,  and  strawberry  suppers  and  church 
fairs!"  exclaimed  Lawton,  with  as  much  scorn 
as  he  dared.  4  4 But  only  two  obstacles  are  in 
my  path,  Judge,"  he  continued,  44 the  whisky 
ring  and  the  negro  vote,  and  Jackson  carries 
this  whisky  ring  on  his  finger  and  the  negro 
vote  in  his  pocket.  If  I  could  but  break 
the  whisky  ring!"  sighed  the  young  man. 

44Ah,  Charlie,  a  ring  made  of  whisky  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  break,"  said  the 
old  gentleman. 

4 4 Well,  if  I  can't  break  the  whisky  ring,  if  I 
could  only  divide  the  negro  vote  with  Jack- 
son, I  should  be  mayor  of  Oakville. " 

44Why  can't  you  divide  it?" 

44I'll  tell  you  why,  Judge,"  said  Lawton, 
drawing  up  his  chair.  4  4  Do  you  know  Lucullus 
Williams,  the  negro  tinner?" 

44Yes." 

44 Well,  he  holds  the  mayorship  of  Oakville 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  it's  a  burning 
shame.  Lucullus  is  the  political  boss  of  all 
the  negroes  in  Oakville.  They  look  up  to 
Lucullus  as  their  chief  citizen,  and  they  vote 
just  as  he  tells  them.  On  election  day  Lucullus 
has  them  all  rounded  up  like  a  flock  of  sheep. " 

44But  where  does  Jackson  come  in?"  asked 
the  Judge,  a  little  perplexed. 


2oo  aiatiama  Stfutcijes 


"Why,  Jackson  has  bought  Lucullus!"  said 
Lawton,  in  an  intense  whisper. 

"Just  think  how  disgraceful,  papa!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Alice.  4 'Oh,  Charlie,  if  you 
could  only  have  bought  him  first  !" 

"That's  unfortunate,  but  I  hope  you  may 
win,"  said  the  Judge.  "However,  don't  set 
your  heart  on  the  office,  Charlie.  Jackson  is 
a  most  expert  politician,  and  he  will  be  hard 
to  defeat.  Don't  give  any  more  time  to  the 
educated  voters,  and  devote  all  your  attention 
to  the  negroes.  With  a  respectable  min- 
ority of  the  colored  vote  your  election  is  as- 
sured. " 

Lawton  rose  to  go.  The  moon  was  climb- 
ing above  the  magnolias,  and  the  young  man 
had  to  admit  that  the  old  Judge  had  sat  him 
out.  Hurriedly  making  an  engagement  to 
play  tennis  at  five  o'clock  next  day,  he  started 
homeward. 

The  moonlight  had  flooded  the  treetops, 
and  gleamed  like  silver  on  the  dew-wet  leaves. 
As  Lawton  walked  by  one  old-fashioned  flower- 
garden  after  another  the  night  airs  wafted  to 
him  a  succession  of  perfumes.  The  balm  of 
roses,  magnolias,  honeysuckles,  myrtles,  jas- 
mines, and  mimosas  floated  by  him  in  bewilder- 
ing sweetness.    But  none  of  them  could  make 


$oitttcal  Split  in  ©afebtlle  201 


him  forget  the  breath  of  the  lilies  that  Alice 
Lawton  had  worn  at  her  throat. 

Yes,  Alice  was  all  the  world  to  him.  He 
sighed.  How  he  hated  this  dirty  political 
fight!  He  loved  the  law,  his  profession,  and 
he  almost  regretted  having  entered  the  contest 
for  the  mayorship.  He  would  drop  out  now 
but  for  one  thing. 

Lawton  had  loved  Alice  Lawrence  for  two 
years,  but  he  had  not  yet  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  He  could  not  go  to  the  old  Judge  and 
demand  the  hand  of  his  only  daughter  until  he 
had  an  assured  income.  His  practice  was 
increasing,  but  that  alone  would  not  enable 
him  to  keep  a  wife;  however,  with  the  addition 
of  the  mayor's  salary  it  would  be  ample.  If 
he  did  not  get  the  office  he  could  not  perhaps 
marry  for  two  years,  and  two  years  to  a  man 
in  love  sometimes  seems  an  eternity. 

So  he  determined  to  fight  it  out  and  win  the 
mayor's  office,  if  possible,  by  any  means  that 
were  not  dishonorable.  For  Alice's  sake  he 
would  wade  through  political  mire  as  deep  as 
the  mud  of  Bearheaven  swamp,  if  it  were  only 
mire  that  would  wash  off. 

Even  Lawton's  enemies  admitted  his  politi- 
cal gift,  but  his  friends  declared  he  was  too 
direct,  too  honest,  to  enter  the  lists  with  a 


202  &lafcama  j&ftetcf)es 


shrewd  old  schemer  like  Jackson.  Some  of 
his  advisers  wished  Lawton  to  outbid  Jackson 
for  Lucullus  Williams's  influence,  but  at  this 
suggestion  Lawton's  honor  revolted.  His 
counsellors  laughed,  and  replied  that  he  had 
not  been  in  politics  long  enough. 

But  every  political  "boss"  has  his  rival, 
black  as  well  as  white.  Lucullus  Williams 
had  his. 

There  was  a  negro  carpenter  in  Oakville 
who  was  longing  for  Lucullus's  political  bro- 
gans.  As  yet,  however,  Jim  Lawrence — he 
was  a  former  slave  of  the  Judge's — had  not 
acquired  enough  influence  with  his  race  to 
render  him  an  object  of  bribery  to  the  whisky 
ring. 

Yet  Jim  was  learning.  He  knew  that  to 
keep  one's  name  before  the  public  was  the  first 
principle  of  politics.  To  do  so  he  had  offered 
his  services  to  Lawton  free  of  charge,  and  the 
young  lawyer  had  been  glad  to  accept  them. 

"I  ain't  much  of  a  speechifyer,  Marse 
Charlie,"  said  Jim,  "but  I'm  a  powerful  han' 
at  still-huntin',  and  I'll  jes'  cirkilate  roun' 
'mong  de  colored  folks  an'  git  yer  all  de  votes 
I  kin,  for  I  jes'  bodaciously  'spises  dat  big- 
gerty  nigger,  Lucullus  Williams,  wursuren 
pisen." 


Cfje  Paifefca!  Spltt  in  ©afcbtlle  203 


So  it  happened  the  morning  after  his  con- 
versation with  Judge  Lawrence  that  Lawton 
on  his  way  to  his  office  stopped  to  see  Jim  at 
his  shop. 

Jim's  place  of  business  was  on  a  side  street 
and  had  been  a  stable  before  the  war.  In 
front  of  the  wide  door  on  each  side,  two  im- 
mense oaks,  survivors  of  the  primeval  forest, 
shaded  the  moss-grown  roof  in  summer  and 
pelted  it  with  acorns  in  autumn. 

The  interior  of  Jim's  shop  would  have  de- 
lighted the  eyes  of  the  old  Dutch  painters. 
To  his  original  trade  of  carpenter  Jim  had 
added  the  avocation  of  upholsterer  and  cabi- 
net-maker. Besides  containing  planed  and 
unplaned  wood  of  all  kinds,  the  room  seemed 
a  hospital  for  decrepit  furniture.  The  cob- 
webby walls  were  lined  with  chairs,  sofas,  and 
beds,  in  various  stages  of  dissolution  or  con- 
valescence. Jim  was  repairing  a  broken- 
legged  chair  when  Lawton  entered. 

"Mornin',  Marse  Charlie!  Take  dis  chair, 
Marse  Charlie;  dat  un's  missin'  a  leg,"  said 
Jim,  bustling  forward  with  a  newly  mended 
chair  on  his  big  black  arm,  and  blowing  the 
dust  from  it  with  his  great  thick  lips. 

"Never  mind,  Jim;  what's  the  news?" 

"Don't  ax  me,  Marse  Charlie. 99 


204  aialiama  S&etcfiea 


''Haven't  you  gained  me  any  more  votes?" 

"Lawd,  Marse  Charlie,  I'm  feared  I  los' 
some,"  said  Jim,  dolefully,  gluing  the  chair 
leg.    "You  know  ole  Jerusalem?" 

"The  old  lame  darky?" 

"Yes,  that  lives  next  door  to  me.  I  worked 
hard  on  ole  Jerusalem,  Marse  Charlie,  an'  he 
swore  to  me  he's  gwine  vote  for  you  ef  he's 
livin',  kaze  he  knowed  yer  gran'father,  the 
old  general.  Well,  las'  night,  after  all  my 
talkin'  to  Jerusalem,  dat  biggerty  nigger, 
Lucullus  Williams,  he  tolled  Jerusalem  into 
de  back  door  of  Biggs's  bar-room  with  a 
drink  o'  whisky,  an'  twelve  o'clock  las'  night 
Jerusalem  come  a-staggerin'  home  bumpin'  de 
fence  every  step,  an'  a-hoorawin  for  Jackson. 
Hit's  mighty  desscouragin',  Marse  Charlie, 
hit  sholy  is,"  said  Jim,  sorrowfully. 

"It  is,  Jim,"  agreed  Lawton,  waxing  grave. 

"Yes,  Marse  Charlie,  an'  I'm  'feared  all  my 
votes  is  gwine  de  way  o'  Jerusalem's.  De 
onliest  way  to  keep  'em  is  to  ketch  'em  an' 
pen  'em  up  like  pigs,"  said  Jim,  hanging  up 
the  chair  to  dry. 

"I  suppose  Lucullus  has  command  of  all  the 
liquor  he  wants?" 

"To  be  sho' !  Ain't  you  h'yerd  what  Cunnel 
Jackson  done  to  Lucullus?" 


W$z  political  Spltt  in  ©afebttle  205 


"No." 

"De  Cunnel  he's  done  writ  a  order  on  all  de 
bar-rocms  in  de  town  for  to  give  Lucullus  all 
de  whisky  he  ax  for,  an'  Lucullus  is  tellin'  de 
niggers  de  Cunnel  wants  'em  to  drink  to  his 
success.  De  Cunnel  says  he  can't  drink  wid 
'em  all  hisse'f.  But,  Marse  Charlie,  Lucullus 
ain't  no  ways  'feared  to  take  de  job,  dat  he 
ain't!  Yes,  Marse  Charlie,  dat's  how  it  is, 
an'  Lucullus  is  jes'  gwine  roun'  sweatin' 
whisky. " 

"Never  mind,  Jim,  we  will  give  'em  a  good 
fight,  anyway." 

"Dat  we  will,  Marse  Charlie.  But  hit's 
mighty  hard  fightin'  'ginst  whisky.  Hit 
draws  niggers  lak  merlasses  does  flies.  How- 
somever,  I'm  gwine  have  one  more  wrastle 
wid  ole  Jerusalem  when  he  gits  sober." 

"That's  the  right  spirit,  Jim.  Have  you 
talked  to  the  colored  people  about  the  hog 
law?" 

"Yes,  but  Lawd,  Marse  Charlie,  dey  don't 
care  nothin'  'bout  no  hog  law.  Dey  jes' 
laughs  an'  say  hit 's  easier  to  pick  up  de  white 
folks'  hogs  in  a  pen  than  gwine  roun'  loose." 

The  bright  reports  brought  to  Lawton  from 
the  white  voters  did  not  remove  the  dejection 
caused  by  the  machinations  of  Lucullus.  But 


2o6  aiatiama  Sfcetcfjes 


he  withheld  from  his  Caucasian  supporters 
Jim's  depressing  tidings. 

When  the  next  afternoon  arrived  Lawton 
was  too  low-spirited  for  tennis.  After  the 
first  game  Alice  and  he  retired  to  a  rustic  seat 
under  the  myrtles.  Never  had  the  girl  looked 
so  winsome.  Why  had  she  made  herself  so 
bewitching  just  at  the  hour  when  fate  seemed 
to  shadow  his  hope  of  winning  her? 

"I  know  why  you  play  so  badly,' '  she  said; 
"you  are  blue  about  the  election. " 

"You  have  guessed  it. " 

Then  Lawton  related  to  Alice  all  that  Jim 
had  said.  When  he  had  finished  he  could  not 
resist  the  girl's  sympathetic  glance.  He 
plunged:  "Miss  Alice,  do  you  know  why  I 
want  the  mayor's  office  so  badly?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  softly,  toying  with 
her  tennis  racquet. 

"It  is  nothing  to  be  mayor  of  Oakville,  but 
with  the  salary  added  to  my  present  income  I 
could  ask  the  girl  I  love  to  marry  me.  Alice, 
do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  still  more  softly,  and  with  drooping 
lashes. 

"And  do  you  still  wish  me  to  get  the  office?" 
The  girl  blushed,  then  looking  up,  waived 
the  question. 


loltttcal  Split  in  ©afebflle  207 


"Charlie,  I've  thought  of  a  plan." 
"A  plan  to  do  what?"  asked  Lawton,  a 
little  coldly,  not  pleased  by  the  evasion. 
"To  make  you  mayor  of  Oakville. " 
"Oh,  indeed?" 

"Very  well,  if  I'm  an  idiot  I'll  keep  the  plan 
to  myself;  and  I  hope  you  won't  be  mayor." 
Lawton  surrendered. 

"  'Idiot!'  I  want  the  office  so  badly  I'm 
catching  at  straws." 

"Charlie,  I  know  how  you  can  get  three 
hundred  negro  votes." 

"Great  heavens!  How?" 

"Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Alice, 
laying  down  her  racquet  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance. 

"Charlie,  why  do  men  drink  whisky?" 

"Because  they  like  it,  I  suppose." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  They  drink  whisky 
because  they  are  naturally  lazy.  Men  would 
much  rather  eat  than  drink,  but  food  has  to 
be  prepared,  while  whisky  is  always  ready, 
easy  to  carry,  never  spoils,  and  doesn't  have 
to  be  cooked." 

"Oh,  I  see!  You  want  me  to  give  the 
negroes  a  barbecue.    It's  too  late." 

No,  not  a  barbecue;  something  better. 
What  time  do  the  saloons  close?" 


2o8  aiafianta  &kttt$t& 


4  4  At  midnight  before  election  day." 
"And  no  whisky  can  be  sold  to-morrow?" 
4  4  Not  a  drop.    All  saloons  are  closed  by 
law." 

4  4  Then  to-night  at  twelve  Lucullus  Smith 
will  be  powerless." 

44What  then?"  asked  Lawton,  growing  inter- 
ested. 

4 4 Listen,  listen,"  said  the  girl,  excitedly. 
44Has  Jim  Lawrence  a  handful  of  negroes  on 
whom  he  can  depend?" 

44 A  handful,  yes." 

44Then  at  one  o'clock  to-night  let  Jim  and 
his  aides  go  around  town  and  knock  at  all  the 
cabin  doors  and  tell  all  the  negroes  that  Marse 
Lawton's  got  a  big  supper  for  them  down 
town  at  the  court-house." 

44I  see,  I  see,"  said  Lawton. 

44You  needn't  appear  in  the  matter.  Jim 
can  manage  the  whole  affair,"  continued  Alice. 
4 4  Once  you  have  the  negroes  in  the  court- 
house, keep  them  there  till  the  polls  open. 
Give  them  all  they  can  eat  and  the  things  that 
negroes  like  best. " 

44I  know,"  said  Lawton;  44I'll  give  them 
sardines,  ginger-cake,  tinned  salmon,  and 
watermelon. " 

4 4 And  cigars,"  added  Alice. 


Cfje  loltttcai  Split  in  ©aftbtlle  209 


"Certainly;  all  the  two-fors  they  can 
smoke. " 

"Charlie,  what  is  a  two-for?  A  new  brand 
of  cigar?" 

"No,  two  for  five  cents — the  cigars  that 
negroes  smoke. M 

"Yes,  Charlie,  plenty  of  two-fors,  and  bread 
and  pickles  and  cheese  and  everything.  You 
must  work  rapidly.  Send  the  omnibus  for  the 
negroes." 

"I'll  charter  all  the  cabs  in  Oakville.  Let  me 
once  get  three  hundred  negroes  in  the  court- 
house at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  I'll 
keep  them  there  till  the  polls  open,  so  help 
me,  vi  et  armis.  " 

It  was  six  o'clock.  There  was  much  to  do, 
and  time  was  flying. 

Lawton  hurried  to  find  his  most  energetic 
white  supporter,  Dick  Newton,  for  he  wished 
to  have  another  man's  opinion  upon  Alice's 
daring  scheme. 

Dick  Newton  wore  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  a 
flannel  shirt,  stuffed  his  trousers  in  his  boots, 
and  belonged  to  the  class  of  men  who  are  util- 
ized in  the  South  as  deputy  sheriffs,  railroad 
overseers,  town  marshals — in  brief,  wherever 
rough  work  calls  for  a  steady  hand  and  a  cool 
head,  men  like  Dick  Newton  are  in  demand. 


2io  aiafcama  Stftetcfjes 


Newton  was  bound  to  Lawton  by  the  double 
tie  of  friendship  and  self-interest.  He  wished 
to  be  marshal  of  Oakville,  and  as  the  marshal 
is  chosen  by  the  mayor  and  board  ot  alder- 
men, he  could  not  get  his  wish  as  reform 
candidate  unless  Lawton  and  his  ticket  were 
elected. 

Newton  listened  attentively. 

4  4  If  it  works  as  easy  as  it  sounds,  the  game 
is  ours.  By  George,  Mr.  Lawton,  we'll  try 
it!"  said  Newton,  and  they  started  for  Jim's 
shop. 

"Lawd,  Marse  Charlie,"  said  Jim,  "why 
ain't  we  thought  o'  dat  skene  before?  Hit's 
a  beautiful  skene;  cose  hit'll  work." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Jim?" 

"To  be  sho',  Marse  Charlie.  Marse  New- 
ton, dar,  he  knows  dat  most  o'  de  niggers  in 
Oakville  ain't  struck  a  lick  o'  work  in  three 
days,  an'  cose  dey  ain't  got  no  money  to  buy 
nothin'  to  eat.  Dey's  jes'  been  livin'  on 
whisky,  an'  mean  whisky  at  dat;  an'  when 
hit's  out  of  'em  dey's  jes'  as  holler  as  a 
gourd.  When  dark  comes  dis  night  half  of 
'em  won't  have  nothin'  to  put  inside  of  'em 
but  old  crusts  an  tater  skins.  You  ax  me  will 
dey  go  down  to  de  court-house  to  a  good  sup- 
per!   Bless  God,  Marse  Charlie,  dem  hongry 


IPoltttcal  Split  in  ©attbtlle  211 


niggers'll  follow  me  down  dar  like  a  drove  o' 
razor-back  hogs.'* 

Political  trickery  was  a  new  business  to 
Lawton.  After  the  plan  had  been  agreed 
upon  he  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Lawton,' '  said  Dick,  seeing 
his  embarrassment,  "this  is  no  work  for  you. 
With  Jim's  help  I'll  take  charge  now." 

"Yes,  Marse  Charlie,  jes'  leave  dis  nigger 
business  to  Marse  Newton  and  me.  We  gwine 
trap  dem  niggers  lak  patridges. " 

"A  little  pen  work  is  all  we  need  from  you, 
Mr.  Lawton,"  said  Newton.  "Write  me  a 
few  orders  on  the  groceries  and  livery  stables, 
and  you  may  go  home." 

It  was  now  dusk.  Conspirators  delight  in 
darkness.  As  night  came  on  with  its  silence 
and  secrecy,  the  plot  appeared  so  easy  of  ac- 
complishment it  seemed  almost  as  much  of  a 
frolic  to  Newton  and  Jim  as  a  poker  party 
or  a  'possum  supper.  But  they  dissembled 
their  glee. 

"Ain't  you  lost,  nigger?"  said  Lucullus,  as 
he  met  Jim  on  the  street.  "Go  home,  boy! 
I  done  got  all  yer  votes.  You  gotter  learn  to 
play  on  dis  horn  'fore  you  kin  ketch  niggers." 
And  Lucullus  waved  a  whisky-bottle  in  the 
twilight. 


2i2  aiafiama  Sftetcfjes 


"Dat'sso  Lucullus, "  replied  Jim;  "you  got 
'em  dis  time.  I'm  gwine  home  an'  let  de 
Debbul  have  his  day." 

By  midnight  Newton  and  Jim  had  all  things 
ready.  There  was  no  red  tape  necessary  to 
get  possession  of  the  court-house.  It  was 
used  for  assemblies  of  all  kinds  free  of  rent. 
Any  one  could  obtain  the  key  from  the  sheriff 
by  asking. 

The  negro  hunt  began  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  after  the  arrival  of  the  midnight 
train.  When  the  omnibus  and  cabs  returned 
from  the  station  to  the  various  stables,  Jim 
Lawrence  and  his  negro  confederates  were 
waiting  at  the  doors  with  orders  from  Lawton, 
and  in  ten  minutes  the  omnibus  and  fifteen 
cabs  were  dashing  over  the  streets  of  Oakville 
in  all  directions. 

"Who's  dat  at  my  door?"  exclaimed  old 
Jerusalem. 

"Wake  up,  wake  up,  nigger!  Is  yer  gwine 
miss  it  all?"  said  Jim,  excitedly. 

"What  I  gwine  miss,  Jim?" 

"Ain't  yer  h'yerd,  man,  'bout  de  big  sup- 
per Marse  Lawton's  givin'  de  cullud  folks 
down  at  de  court-house?  Bless  Gawd,  de 
tables  is  jes'  breakin'  doun'.  Dar's  sardines 
an  salmon  fishes,  an'  Washington  pies,  an* 


Cf)e  political  Split  in  ©aftbtlle  213 


pickles,  an'  ginger-cake,  an'  crackers,  an'  all 
de  seegyars  yer  kin  smoke.  Marse  Lawton's 
sont  a  carriage  for  yer.  De  niggers  is  jes' 
eatin'  away.    Jump  in  dem  britches." 

"Wait,  Jim,  till  I  get  a  drink  o'  water,  I'm 
jes'  a-burnin'  up  inside." 

"Water!"  said  Jim,  scornfully.  Dar's  two 
barls  o'  ice  lemonade  waitin'  for  yer  at  de 
court-house.    Dar — dat's  right — drive  on." 

From  cabin  to  cabin  dashed  the  cabs  and 
omnibus,  then  to  the  court-house,  and  back 
again  for  another  load.  Six  negroes  were 
packed  in  one  carriage  and  three  on  the  box. 

Scenes  similar  to  that  at  old  Jerusalem's 
cabin  were  repeated  again  and  again. 

Sometimes  Jim  would  exclaim:  "Hurry  up, 
nigger,  an*  jump  in  dis  carriage.  De  bar- 
rooms is  all  shet.  You  gwine  git  no  more 
free  whisky  from  Cunnel  Jackson  till  de 
nex'  'lection.  But  Marse  Lawton's  got  a 
supper  for  yer;  I  kin  smell  it  clean  here. 
Jump  in,  nigger,  jump  in!" 

And  not  a  negro  hesitated. 

Never  before  had  Oakville  heard  such  a  pop- 
ping of  whips  and  rolling  of  wheels  at  that 
hour  of  the  night.  People  were  wakened 
from  their  deepest  slumbers  and  went  to  the 
windows  to  look  out. 


2i4  SUafcanta  &kttt%t& 


"Alice,  my  child,  what  can  all  this  hubbub 
mean?"  called  old  Judge  Lawrence  to  his 
daughter  across  the  hall. 

"Go  back  to  bed,  papa,  we  shall  know  in 
the  morning, "  replied  the  girl,  peeping 
through  the  shutters,  and  clapping  her  hands 
for  joy. 

But  the  startled  citizens  of  Oakville  in 
general  were  not  so  well  pleased  as  Miss  Alice. 
When  negro  songs  and  laughter  broke  upon 
their  ears  one  and  all  credited  Colonel  Jack- 
son and  Lucullus  with  the  uproar.  Some  of 
the  Colonel's  stanchest  supporters  exclaimed: 
"Really,  Jackson's  carrying  this  negro  busi- 
ness too  far."  At  three  o'clock  the  banquet- 
hall  was  full.  No  Fourth  of  July  barbecue 
ever  witnessed  such  a  scene  of  light-hearted 
revelry.  The  iced  lemonade  sizzled  down 
black,  whisky-fevered  throats,  and  the  sar- 
dines, ginger-cake,  and  Washington  pies  dis- 
appeared like  hoarfrost  before  a  noonday 
sun.  Box  after  box  of  "two-fors"  went  up 
in  clouds,  and  the  smoke  floating  from  win- 
dows and  doors  gave  the  courthouse  the  look 
of  an  immense  plantation  smokehouse;  and 
jokes  were  cracked  and  'possum  stories  told 
till  the  morning  sun  came  in  at  the  wide  win- 
dows. 


W$t  loltttcal  Split  m  ©aftbtlie  215 


When  the  feasting  was  at  its  height,  Jim 
Lawrence  mounted  a  table,  and  breaking  the 
chains  of  his  eloquence,  made  a  speech  that 
buried  the  fame  of  Lucullus  Williams  out  of 
sight;  and  when  he  finished  by  proposing 
"three  cheers  for  our  comin'  mayor,  Mr. 
Charlie  Lawton,  whose  hospitality  we's  en- 
joyin'  dis  night,"  the  cheers  shook  the  old 
clock  in  the  courthouse  tower. 

"Well,  Jim,  we've  got  'em,"  said  Dick 
Newton,  when  Jim  came  out. 

"Yes,  Marse  Newton,  an'  bless  Gawd  we 
gwine  keep  'em." 

And  they  did,  for  when  Jim  had  carried  in 
a  fresh  supply  of  comestibles  and  cigars  New- 
ton locked  the  great  door  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket. 

The  battle  was  indeed  won,  for  next  morn- 
ing Dick  Newton  unlocked  the  door  of  the 
banquet-hall,  and  Jim  and  his  aides  marched 
three  hundred  negroes  across  the  street  to  the 
polls  in  blocks  of  six,  each  with  a  Lawton 
ticket  in  his  hand. 

The  white  citizens  of  Oakville  knew  not 
whether  to  frown  or  laugh  at  the  novel  spec- 
tacle. But  when  they  comprehended  the 
boldness  of  the  scheme  and  the  adroitness  with 
which  it  had  been  executed,  they  laughed ;  and 


2i6  aiafiama  Sfcetcfjes 


when  they  beheld  Jim  Lawrence's  joy  and 
pride  shining  through  his  pompous  solemnity, 
and  Lucullus's  speechless  discomfiture,  and 
Colonel  Jackson's  surprise  and  dismay,  they 
roared. 

When  the  votes  were  counted,  Lawton's 
majority  was  unprecedented. 

That  evening  Lawton  went  to  receive  the 
congratulations  of  Alice  Lawrence. 

* 4  Miss  Alice,  you  stand  before  the  mayor  of 
Oakville,  and  your  case  will  be  tried  forth- 
with/' said  the  young  man,  with  mock  gravity. 

"With  what  am  I  charged,  your  honor?" 

"With  inciting  electoral  frauds." 

"My  sentence?"  asked  the  girl,  with  a  dim- 
ple and  a  blush. 

"Matrimony  for  life." 


UNDER  THE  WHITE  ROSE- 
TREE 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


UNDER  THE  WHITE  ROSE- 
TREE 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

PROFESSOR  WINSTON  had  dwelt  the 
greater  part  of  his  forty-five  years  at 
Oakville,  and  the  little  west  Alabama  town 
was  very  dear  to  him.  He  loved  the  soft  blue 
Southern  skies  above  it,  and  the  widespread- 
ing  water-oaks  that  shaded  its  streets.  He 
loved  its  quaint  old  gardens,  with  their  spicy 
musk-roses,  fragrant  honeysuckle,  and  the 
languid  tiger-lilies  that  swayed  over  their 
shadow-flecked  walks.  He  loved  its  mocking- 
birds, that  nested  in  the  fig-trees  and  myrtles 
and  sang  all  night.  He  loved  the  old  town 
so  well  that  even  its  faults  and  blemishes  were 
dear  to  him.  He  liked  to  hear  even  the  grunt- 
ing of  the  village  hogs  that  roamed  the  streets 
as  fancy  led  them,  and  the  klinkity-klank  of 
the  cow-bells  at  evening  was  pleasant  to  his 
ears. 

Consequently,  on  a  bright  April  morning  in 
219 


22o  aiafiama  Stfutcfjes 


1865,  as  the  little  man  stood  in  front  of  the 
post-office  and  listened  to  the  great  news  .of 
the  impending  raid,  he  was  not  deficient  in 
patriotism,  although  in  the  hour  of  municipal 
peril  the  first  thought  that  entered  his  bachelor 
breast  concerned  the  safety  of  his  much- 
beloved  watch. 

The  dear  old  watch  whose  faithful  heart 
had  throbbed  so  long  against  his  own — would 
the  Yankees  rob  him  of  it?  The  Professor 
left  the  excited  throng  and  started  homeward. 

Across  the  street  from  the  Professor's 
home,  in  a  vine-embowered  cottage,  had  lived 
for  many  years  Miss  Melinda  Price.  Dwell- 
ing full  half  a  mile  from  the  post-office,  Miss 
Melinda  frequently  deplored  her  inability  to 
keep  as  well  informed  in  regard  to  the  doings 
of  the  days  as  her  friends  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  that  vortex,  where  a  buggy  or  a 
wagon  passed  every  fifteen  minutes. 

This  morning,  as  usual,  Miss  Melinda  was 
half  an  hour  behind  time.  Only  a  dim  echo 
of  the  momentous  tidings  had  reached  her, 
and  she  was  standing  at  her  gate  in  great 
perturbation  as  the  Professor  approached. 

"What  is  this  I  hear,  Professor?"  said  the 
little  spinster,  with  a  frightened  smile. 
"Have  we  lost  another  battle?" 


SJnfcer  ti)t  HMtytt  l&o^Cree  221 


44 Yes;  worse  than  that,"  replied  the  Pro- 
fessor, so  gravely  that  Miss  Melinda's  smile 
vanished,  and  she  caught  her  breath.  She 
knew  the  Professor  was  not  an  alarmist,  and 
she  listened  eagerly  to  his  brief  statement  of 
facts. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  exclaimed  in  dis- 
may. 

"We  can  do  nothing/'  said  her  neighbor. 
"There  is  some  talk  of  a  defense,  but  it  is 
foolish  to  attempt  it.  There  are  none  in  the 
town  to  make  resistance  but  old  men,  chil- 
dren, and  one-armed  and  one-legged  soldiers." 

"I  know,"  said  Miss  Melinda,  "but  it  is 
dreadful  to  wait  like  sheep  in  ignorance  of 
what  we  are  to  suffer.  Perhaps  the  Raiders 
will  destroy  the  town." 

"They  will  scarcely  do  that." 

"If  not,  they  will  carry  away  everything  of 
value.  My  cousin  in  Virginia  wrote  me  that 
the  Yankees  took  her  carriage-horses,  and 
some  stragglers  robbed  her  of  all  her  silver 
plate,  and  carried  off  even  her  husband's 
watch." 

The  Professor's  heart  sank  within  him. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  hide  your  watch?" 
added  Miss  Melinda,  catching  sight  of  the 
Professor's  watch-chain. 


222  Alabama  &kttct)t8 


"I  was  thinking  of  doing  so,"  said  the  little 
man,  steadying  his  voice. 

"I  certainly  should,  Professor.  Fortu- 
nately, I  sent  my  silver  forks  and  spoons  to  a 
friend  up  in  the  hills  as  soon  as  I  received  my 
cousin's  letter.  I  kept  nothing  but  my  gold 
thimble  that  belonged  to  my  grandmother." 

"It  is  difficult  to  decide  upon  the  method  of 
concealment,"  said  the  Professor,  taking  the 
watch  from  his  pocket  and  gazing  at  it  ten- 
derly. "It  is  the  loudest  ticker  I  ever  heard," 
he  continued,  with  pride.  44 At  night  it  can  be 
heard  all  over  the  house." 

"Then  you  must  not  hide  it  in  the  house," 
said  Miss  Melinda.  "However,  it  would  not 
be  heard  after  it  had  run  down." 

"Run  down!"  exclaimed  the  Professor,  in  a 
shocked  tone.  "It  has  not  run  down  in  thirty- 
five  years." 

"If  I  were  you,  I  should  bury  it."  Miss 
Melinda  spoke  in  a  solemn  whisper,  and  looked 
around  as  if  she  feared  an  eavesdropper. 

"  'Bury  it!'  "  echoed  the  Professor,  experi- 
encing another  shock. 

"Yes." 

A  brief  silence  ensued,  during  which  the 
Professor  grew  reconciled  to  Miss  Melinda's 
plan  of  concealment.    Then  he  looked  at  his 


aintier  tfje  fflffltfjfte  Umts&xn  223 


little  neighbor,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  heard  of  the  approach  of  the  Raiders  his 
watch  left  his  mind.  He  noticed  that  Miss 
Melinda  had  blue  eyes,  and  that  they  were 
very  pretty. 

Miss  Melinda  was  looking  in  the  distance. 
A  new  thought  had  also  come  to  her,  but  it 
did  not  concern  the  Professor's  eyes.  She 
had  known  for  yjears  that  they  were  dark  gray 
and  very  pleasant  to  look  at.  Then,  either 
because  of  her  new  thought,  or  because  she 
had  become  conscious  of  the  Professor's  admir- 
ing gaze,  she  blushed,  and  the  pretty  pink  tint 
took  away  fifteen  from  her  forty  years. 

"Where  shall  I  bury  it?"  asked  the  Profes- 
sor, mentally  noting  the  blush  for  further 
meditation. 

"Anywhere,"  replied  Miss  Melinda,  adding 
in  her  confusion  an  embarrassed  little  dimple 
to  the  Professor's  list  of  her  attractions. 

"Shall  I  bury  it  under  the  white  rose-tree 
near  the  summer-house?" 

"Under  the  white  rose — the  very  place;  I 
can  see  it  from  my  window." 

Then  the  little  woman  summoned  courage 
to  make  known  the  thought  that  had  caused 
her  blush. 

"Would  you — would  you  mind  hiding  my 


224  aiafiama  SbUtctyz 


gold  thimble  with  your  watch?"  she  asked, 
shyly. 

"Certainly  not;  I  should  like  to  do  so," 
and  a  blush  of  pleasure  suffused  the  Professor's 
face  in  turn. 

Miss  Melinda  tripped  away  to  bring  the 
little  gold  heirloom,  and  watching  her  till  she 
had  disappeared  in  the  house,  the  Professor 
jauntily  tapped  the  heel  of  his  boot  with  his 
walking-cane  as  he  used  to  do  when  a  college 
boy,  and  as  he  had  not  done  for  twenty  years. 

After  Miss  Melinda  had  given  her  thimble 
to  the  Professor,  and  he  had  gone  away  with 
it,  she  felt  very  strangely.  At  first  she 
ascribed  her  singular  emotions  to  her  fright, 
for  she  was  truly  afraid  of  the  Raiders.  But 
then,  she  asked  herself,  if  it  was  only  fear 
that  she  felt,  why  was  she  not  unhappy?  Fear 
does  not  usually  bring  happiness,  and  Miss 
Melinda  was  forced  to  admit  that  she  was  not 
in  the  least  miserable. 

Another  queer  circumstance:  instead  of 
thinking  of  the  approaching  enemy,  as  all 
Oakville  was  doing,  she  found  the  Professor 
occupying  more  and  more  of  her  mind.  This 
caused  her  a  little  discomfort  till  she  explained 
it  to  herself  in  this  way.  Her  grandmother's 
thimble  was  her  most  highly  prized  possession, 


Stntier  tf)e  SHin'te  3&o0e*€w  225 


and  now  that  it  had  passed  temporarily  into 
the  Professor's  keeping  she  could  not  naturally 
think  of  one  and  not  think  of  the  other.  This 
explanation  afforded  her  much  satisfaction, 
and  having  reached  it,  she  gave  her  whole 
mind  to  her  thimble. 

When  the  Professor  reached  his  study  he 
closed  the  door,  which  was  a  signal  to  old 
Patsy,  the  cook,  and  the  lot-boy,  Jim,  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  Then  he 
took  from  his  pocket  a  little  case  scarcely  an 
inch  cube  in  size  and  covered  with  blue  satin. 
It  was  so  dainty  that  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
handling  a  butterfly.  Before  going  further, 
he  spread  his  handkerchief  over  an  old,  musty 
Greek  volume  that  lay  open  upon  the  table. 
Very  gently  he  placed  the  case  upon  the  hand- 
kerchief, and  pressed  a  tiny  spring.  As  he 
did  this  the  cover  of  the  case  flew  back,  dis- 
closing Miss  Melinda's  thimble. 

He  took  it  out  with  the  greatest  care,  and 
turned  it  round  and  round.  It  seemed  to  him 
the  smallest  thimble  he  had  ever  seen.  On 
one  side  near  the  rim  was  graven  a  tiny  heart 
with  a  spray  of  forget-me-nots  lying  upon  it. 

UA  lover's  gift!"  whispered  the  Professor. 
"It  must  be  a  hundred  years  old." 

He  had  not  believed  a  thimble  could  be  so 


226  aiafiama  Sfcetcfjes 


pretty.  Then  he  looked  across  the  street  at 
Miss  Melinda's  cottage,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  he  were  rousing  up,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
from  a  benumbing  sleep  of  twenty  years;  only, 
unlike  Rip,  he  was  waking  up  with  a  sensation 
of  youth  and  happiness  which  was  at  once 
strange  and  familiar,  and  as  sweet  as  the 
breath  of  the  first  hyacinth  in  the  spring. 

Soon  his  reverie  was  broken  by  the  noise  of 
horses  and  wagons  and  loud  voices  in  the 
street.  People  were  carrying  their  baled  cot- 
ton into  the  hills  to  conceal  it  from  the 
Raiders.  This  reminded  the  Professor  that 
he  also  had  something  to  do. 

He  could  not  put  Miss  Melinda's  thimble 
and  his  watch  in  the  ground  with  nothing  to 
guard  them  from  the  rain  and  dampness. 

He  looked  about  him  a  few  moments  in 
vain.  There  was  nothing  the  right  size.  A 
happy  thought  came  to  him.  He  would  use 
his  tobacco-box.  It  was  of  tin,  and  had  a 
top.  He  wrapped  the  thimble-case  in  tissue 
paper,  placed  his  watch  in  an  envelope,  put 
them  both  in  the  box,  and  tied  it  up.  This 
was  all  he  could  do  at  present,  for  he  did  not 
dare  to  bury  the  box  by  day,  for  fear  of  being 
seen. 

The  Professor  had  faith  in  the  honesty  of 


Wintitx  ti)e  ffiHfjtie  Uom-Eut  227 


old  Patsy;  but  of  her  grandson,  Jim,  he 
sighed  to  think  he  was  doubtful.  Jim's  record 
did  not  yet  include  watches,  but  he  held  the 
negro  idea  that  personal  property  out  of  place 
might  be  regarded  as  lost;  and  that  a  thing 
lost  became  the  property  of  the  finder  was 
Jim's  firm  belief. 

So  it  was  not  till  ten  o'clock  that  night  that 
the  watch  and  thimble  were  interred  under  the 
white  rose-tree. 

Two  hours  later  Oakville  was  roused  from 
its  beauty-sleep  by  a  discharge  of  musketry 
and  the  tramping  of  many  horses  in  its  streets. 

The  foe  had  come. 

When  morning  arrived,  Oakville  found  itself 
a  conquered  city.  However,  few  it  any  of  its 
fears  were  fulfilled.  The  commander  of  the 
Federal  cavalry,  realizing  that  municipal 
authority  was  necessarily  suspended  by  mar- 
tial law,  stationed  sentinels  through  the  town 
at  the  houses  of  leading  citizens  to  protect 
their  property. 

One  soldier  was  deemed  sufficient  to  guard 
the  cottages  of  Miss  Melinda  and  the  Profes- 
sor. 

When  Corporal  Jones  arrived,  Miss  Melinda 
was  much  flustered;  but  as  the  Corporal  was  a 
well-conducted  young  man,  and  never  entered 


228  aiafcama  &ktttf)t8 


the  house  save  at  meal-times,  her  fears  soon 
subsided.  The  Professor  had  called  after 
breakfast  to  give  her  the  particulars  of  the 
concealment,  and  to  say  that  all  was,  so  far, 
well.  Further,  he  had  said  he  would  come 
every  day  till  the  Federals  were  gone  and  their 
treasures  exhumed. 

"War, 99  said  Miss  Melinda  to  her  knitting, 
4  4  is  not  so  dreadful  when  one  has  a  sympa- 
thetic friend  to  share  its  hardships." 

But  the  Professor  greatly  missed  his  watch. 
So  much  had  he  relied  upon  it  that  he  had  let 
his  clock  run  down  years  ago. 

Suppose  Corporal  Jones  should  ask  the 
time!    He  made  haste  to  wind  the  clock. 

Corporal  Jones,  however,  was  not  inquisi- 
tive. He  passed  most  of  his  time  sitting  on 
the  veranda  smoking,  or  walking  in  front  of 
the  house.  The  Professor  noticed  approvingly 
that  the  Corporal  never  smoked  at  Miss 
Melinda's  cottage.  Indeed,  so  well  behaved 
was  the  young  soldier  that  the  Professor  was 
almost  sorry  he  had  concealed  his  watch,  and 
he  nearly  decided  to  dig  it  up,  when  he  sud- 
denly thought  that  if  he  did  so  he  must  return 
to  Miss  Melinda  her  thimble,  and  there  would 
be  no  excuse  for  the  daily  morning  calls  that 
he  looked  forward  to  with  so  much  pleasure. 


Thus  the  bright  April  day  waned  to  even, 
with  peace  and  love  following  in  the  wake  of 
war. 

Jim's  mind  alone  remained  perniciously- 
active. 

Had  Jim  been  reared  from  birth  by  old 
Patsy,  his  morals  would  have  been  better. 
The  Professor  had  bought  him  by  Patsy's 
entreaty,  to  keep  him  from  going  the  old 
woman  knew  not  where. 

"Marse  Richard's  mighty  tuck  up  wid  Miss 
Melindy,"  said  the  boy  to  Patsy.  44 He's 
been  to  see  her  dis  mornin',  an'  sence  he  come 
back  he  des  looks  ober  dar  all  de  time." 

"Don't  you  pester  'bout  Marse  Richard. 
Ef  it  hadn't  been  for  Marse  Richard  you 
might  'a'  been  sole  off  into  de  black  swamp, 
to  shake  to  death  wid  de  chills." 

"Well,  I's  free  now.  Marse  Linkum's  sot 
me  free. " 

4 4 Free,  is  yer?"  said  Patsy,  contemptu- 
ously, as  she  wiped  a  plate.  4  4  Free  or  no,  yer 
got  to  work  for  yer  livin'.  Jes'  lif  yerse'f 
up  and  fetch  me  some  stove-wood." 

The  boy  went  to  the  woodpile  muttering  to 
himself. 

Jim  was  peculiarly  gifted.  His  mental  en- 
dowment fitted  him  to  become  equally  eminent 


230  aiafiama  Stutcijes 


as  a  detective  or  a  thief.  His  knowledge  was 
that  of  an  Indian.  He  noticed  everything  and 
forgot  nothing.  Just  now  he  was  in  doubt 
whether  to  go  away  with  the  Raiders,  or  to 
remain  and  taste  the  sweets  of  freedom  at 
Oakville.  For  Jim,  with  more  shrewdness 
than  many  of  the  whites,  believed  that  the 
raid  foreshadowed  the  end  of  the  war. 

Further,  Jim  had  been  to  Zion,  the  negro 
church,  a  few  nights  before,  and  the  negro 
preacher  had  taken  for  his  theme  the  spoiling 
of  the  Egyptians.  The  white  slaveholders 
were  the  Egyptians,  and  the  negroes  were  the 
Israelites,  whose  past  labors  entitled  them  to 
something  more  than  freedom.  With  this  ser- 
mon fresh  in  a  mind  stimulated  by  the  excite- 
ment of  the  raid,  Jim  was  ripe  for  treasons, 
stratagems,  and  spoils. 

From  a  corner  in  the  woodpile  Jim  had  wit- 
nessed Miss  Melinda's  interview  with  the  Pro- 
fessor the  day  before.  What  was  it  Miss 
Melinda  gave  the  Professor  so  carefully?  It 
was  small,  but  it  might  be  very  valuable. 
It  might  be  a  diamond!  Jim's  eyes  grew  big 
at  the  thought.  His  ideas  were  misty  in 
regard  to  precious  gems,  but  he  knew  they 
cost  a  great  deal  of  money. 

What  was  the  Professor  going  to  do  with 


this  unknown  thing?  Here  was  a  mystery 
going  on  right  before  him  that  he  might  turn 
to  his  advantage,  for  was  not  Miss  Melinda  an 
Egyptian? 

Jim  did  not  think  this  out  in  five  minutes. 
He  arrived  at  these  conclusions  after  twenty- 
four  hours  of  brain-work,  and  the  result  was 
a  firm  resolve  to  watch  the  Professor  day  and 
night. 

The  night  after  the  arrival  of  the  Raiders 
began  very  peacefully  for  the  Professor.  He 
retired  at  ten  o'clock.  All  lovers  are  not 
wakeful,  and  he  soon  went  to  sleep.  But  his 
slumber  was  not  dreamless;  a  throng  of  fan- 
cies passed  in  succession  through  his  brain. 
He  saw  Miss  Melinda.  She  was  garbed  in 
white  and  wore  a  bridal  veil.  But  how 
strange — instead  of  orange-flowers  her  wreath 
was  of  blue  forget-me-nots!  He  went  for- 
ward to  lead  her  to  the  altar,  and  she  burst 
into  tears  and  asked  him  for  her  thimble. 
Then  all  turned  dark,  and  he  seemed  to  hear 
the  ticking  of  his  watch.  It  grew  louder  and 
louder,  till  the  ticking  took  the  form  of  words: 
"You  — have — not — wound — me — wound — me 
— wound — me ! ' ' 

He  sprang  suddenly  from  the  bed. 

"My  God!  I  haven't  wound  my  watch!" 


232  aiafiama  Sfeetcfjes 


He  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  bed  in  a  cold 
sweat.  He  always  wound  his  watch  at  ten 
o'clock.  What  time  was  it  now?  He  struck 
a  match  and  looked  at  the  clock ;  ten  minutes 
to  eleven.  He  did  not  know  how  long  the 
watch  would  go  without  being  wound.  Per- 
haps only  an  hour. 

His  lonely  life  had  made  him  morbid.  He 
felt  as  if  the  watch  were  dying,  and  imagined 
he  could  hear  the  ticks  growing  more  and  more 
feeble,  like  the  passing  throbs  of  a  human 
heart.  The  thought  was  anguish;  he  could 
not  bear  it.  He  must  go  wind  the  watch  at 
all  risks;  but  at  night  in  the  darkness  he 
might  go  without  being  observed. 

He  dressed  hurriedly,  opened  the  door 
softly,  and  looked  down  the  veranda. 

Corporal  Jones  was  just  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe.  Was  he  going  to  light  up 
again?  No;  he  put  the  pipe  in  his  pocket 
and  lay  down  on  his  blanket.  At  the  end  of 
five  minutes  he  had  not  stirred,  and  the  Pro- 
fessor, supposing  he  was  asleep,  tipped  care- 
fully from  his  door.  When  he  had  turned  the 
angle  of  the  house,  the  little  man  breathed 
a  bit  easier,  and  threaded  his  way  briskly 
through  the  shrubbery  to  the  white  rose-tree. 

The  Professor  was  wrong:  Corporal  Jones 


UrCtitx  tf)e  M&t'te  HwesSTw  233 


was  not  asleep.  As  soon  as  the  Professor  had 
gone  around  the  corner  of  the  house  the  sol- 
dier rose  from  his  blanket  and  watched  him  by 
the  dim  light  of  the  stars  until  he  saw  him 
digging  beneath  the  white  rose-tree.  Before 
the  Professor  returned  to  his  room  the  Corporal 
lay  down  again  in  his  blanket. 

With  a  feeling  of  unutterable  relief,  the 
Professor  went  to  bed  again. 

When  he  had  become  still,  Jim  crept  out 
from  the  woodpile,  and  rolled  over  and  over 
among  the  chips  in  silent  laughter.  By  and 
by,  when  he  had  given  partial  relief  to  his 
inward  joy  in  this  vivacious  manner,  he  slowly 
rose  to  his  feet  and  readjusted  his  one  "gallus" 
over  his  shoulder.  Then  he  brushed  the  chips 
and  pine  from  his  kinky  head,  and  cautiously 
approached  the  Professor's  back  window  and 
peeped  through  the  shutters.  The  Professor 
was  evidently  asleep,  for  Jim  raised  his  hands 
and  made  the  patting  motion  familiar  to  those 
who  have  watched  a  woman  cradle  a  sleeping 
child. 

The  boy  then  started  to  the  flower-garden. 
To  reach  it  he  must  come  nearer  the  front  of 
the  house.  He  knew  that  the  Corporal  had 
spread  his  blanket  on  the  front  veranda,  and 
it  were  wise  to  be  careful.    On  occasions  like 


234  aiafcama  Skktittyz 


this  Jim  rejoiced  in  his  black  skin,  which  made 
detection  difficult. 

He  crept  on  all  fours  till  he  reached  the 
garden.  Then,  with  a  last  look  at  the  ver- 
anda, he  glided  through  the  bushes  like  a 
black-snake. 

The  rose-tree  was  an  easy  bourne.  Its 
snowy  blossoms  wet  with  dew  gleamed  in  the 
starlight  like  tiny  elfin  lamps,  and  the  grass 
beneath  was  white  with  the  shattered  petals. 
As  he  reached  it  he  bent  his  black  woolly  head 
close  to  the  turf  in  search  of  the  buried  treas- 
ure, but  he  relied  more  upon  the  sense  of 
touch  than  sight.  So  intent  was  he  upon  his 
quest  that  he  did  not  hear  the  jingle  of  a  spur 
twenty  feet  away. 

His  long,  monkey-like  fingers  glided  over 
the  grass,  seeking  a  soft  spot.  When  it  was 
found,  he  scratched  up  the  dirt  like  a  terrier 
dog  hunting  a  rat;  but  just  as  his  long  finger- 
nails scraped  the  top  of  the  tobacco-box,  and 
the  spoils  of  Egypt  were  almost  in  his  grasp, 
a  big,  muscular  hand  gripped  him  by  the  nape 
of  the  neck. 

The  Professor  slept  long  and  soundly.  He 
usually  rose  at  six  o'clock,  but  it  was  nearly 
seven  when  he  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knock- 
ing at  his  door. 


Un^tx  tf)e  QMfyitt  ^oBt^xn  235 


"Who  is  there?"  he  exclaimed. 

"It's  ole  Patsy,  Marse  Richard/'  replied  a 
voice  broken  by  sobs. 

The  Professor  sprang  out  of  bed  and  jumped 
into  his  trousers. 

"Oh,  Marse  Richard!  Marse  Richard!" 

"What  is  the  matter,  Patsy?"  he  asked, 
opening  the  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"Marse  Richard,  I  tried  to  wait  till  yer  riz, 
but  I  couldn't  wait  no  longer." 

"Speak,  Patsy!  in  heaven's  name,  what 
has  happened?" 

"Oh,  Marse  Richard!  he's  gone,  he's 
gone!" 

"Who  is  gone?" 

"Jim,  my  onliest  gran'chile." 

The  word  "gone"  is  a  word  of  ominous 
import  to  all  who  have  hidden  treasures.  At 
its  first  mention  the  Professor  gave  a  start, 
but  when  it  was  repeated  and  coupled  with 
Jim's  name,  a  fearful  suspicion  chilled  his 
blood. 

After  much  questioning  he  gathered  all 
the  facts  known  to  the  old  woman.  They 
were  few.  She  knew  not  when  Jim  had 
left.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  even- 
ing before. 

"Perhaps  he  has  only  gone  down  town  to 


236  aiaiama  Sttetcfjes 


look  at  the  Raiders,"  said  the  Professor,  as 
much  to  still  his  own  misgivings  as  to  cheer 
old  Patsy. 

"No,  Marse  Richard;  Jim  ain't  slept  last 
night.  His  bed  ain't  been  touched.  No, 
Jim's  gone!"  wailed  the  old  creature. 

The  Professor  had  finished  dressing,  and 
his  apprehensions  had  become  unbearable. 
Trying  to  assume  his  usual  manner,  he  strolled 
toward  the  flower-garden  as  if  merely  to  take 
the  air.  When  screened  by  the  shrubbery,  he 
hastened  his  pace  and  approached  the  spot 
where  his  every  thought  centred.  At  the 
first  glance  his  fears  increased.  The  ground 
appeared  broken  and  uneven.  In  his  haste 
the  preceding  night,  could  he  have  left  the 
place  in  that  untidy  state?  He  knelt  beneath 
the  rose-tree  with  shaking  knees. 

The  box  was  not  there! 

The  Professor  was  standing  under  the  yel- 
low jasmines  on  Miss  Melinda's  front  veranda. 

The  robbery  had  been  told.  Two  drops 
glistened  on  Miss  Melinda's  lashes,  but  they 
were  not  tears  of  regret  for  the  loss  of  the 
precious  thimble,  but  of  sympathy  and  sorrow 
for  the  Professor. 


"And  the  worst  is,  I  can  make  no  effort  for 
their  recovery.  In  order  to  do  so  I  must  con- 
fess to  Corporal  Jones  that  we  suspected  him 
and  his  comrades  of  being  thieves  and  rob- 
bers." 

"Then  the  Corporal  doesn't  know  of  our 
loss?"  said  Miss  Melinda,  lifting  her  sympa- 
thetic blue  eyes  to  the  Professor's  gaze. 

"I  haven't  told  him." 

A  silence. 

"Ah,  Miss  Price!  prudence  whispered  me 
yesterday  to  exhume  the  box,  and  I  refrained 
because — " 

Another  silence. 

"Because?"  echoed  Miss  Melinda,  gently. 

"Because,  if  I  did  so,  I  must  return 
your  thimble,  and  that  would  end  our 
secret." 

Miss  Melinda  blushed. 

"But  there's  another,  a  dearer  secret,  if  I 
dared  tell  it  to  you!"  exclaimed  the  Professor, 
fired  by  the  blush. 

There  was  a  quick  step  and  a  jingling  of 
spurs  on  the  pebbled  walk,  and  Corporal 
Jones  stood  before  them. 

He  lifted  his  hat  to  Miss  Melinda  and 
bowed. 


238  aiafiama  Sfcetcf)** 


"The  brigade  is  leaving,  and  I  come  to  bid 
you  good-bye/' 

He  turned  to  the  Professor. 

"And  to  return  to  you  this  box  that  I  se- 
cured from  a  thief  last  night." 

He  bowed  again  and  was  gone. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  MARY 
ELLEN 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  MARY 
ELLEN 

WHEN  Jim  Evans  bought  the  Oakville 
Chronicle  and  paid  five  hundred  dollars 
for  it,  people  called  it  a  "fine  deal."  At  first 
Jim  congratulated  himself,  deeming  the  phrase 
a  tribute  to  his  shrewdness;  but  when  he  came 
to  view  his  journalistic  property  it  occurred 
to  him  that  possibly  the  compliment  had  been 
misappropriated. 

His  misgiving  grew  when  the  Argus,  the 
rival  sheet,  came  out  with  the  following  para- 
graph : 

Old  Brown,  of  the  Chronicle^  has  finally  sold  his 
moribund  paper.  It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  state 
that  his  victim  is  a  stranger.  He  hails  from  Missis- 
sippi, and  is  red-headed.  Let  us  hope  that  his  florid 
locks  may  throw  at  least  a  hectic  glow  on  the  dullness 
of  our  expiring  contemporary. 

"I'm  not  red-headed;  my  hair  is  auburn/' 
said    Evans,    indignantly.     "I'll   make  the 
Chronicle  a  big  success,  if  I  have  to  work  day 
and  night.    Hang  the  Argus!''' 
241 


242  &lafiama  gfrtitifyt* 


('Amen!n 

Evans  had  supposed  himself  alone  in  the 
ramshackle  office,  and  turning  abruptly,  his 
glance  fell  upon  a  boy  of  sixteen,  who  met  his 
eye  with  a  smile,  half  fearful,  half  impudent. 

To  Evans's  startled  inquiry  the  boy  ex- 
plained that  he  was  Tom  Wilson,  the  Chronicle 
devil;  and  upon  his  insisting  that  he  "went 
with  the  paper/'  and  could  set  type,  Evans 
reengaged  him,  and,  with  his  staff  of  one,  the 
young  editor  settled  down  to  work. 

The  item  most  lauded  by  Brown  had  been 
the  Chronicle's  "good-will."  Experience 
proved  that  this  intangible  thing  represented 
the  right  to  solicit  advertisements,  and  the 
doubtful  pleasure  of  entertaining  Colonel 
Badham,  a  decayed  politician,  who  dropped  in 
daily,  with  a  bottle  of  cough  mixture,  to  read 
the  exchanges. 

"Does  he  go  with  the  paper,  too?"  asked 
Evans  of  Tom,  at  the  end  of  a  week. 

"Who,  the  Colonel?" 

Evans  nodded. 

"I  don't  know,"  laughed  the  boy.  "He's 
a  chromo — the  Colonel.  That  bottle  of  cough 
mixture  is  only  old  rye,  and  he  sometimes  has 
the  jimjams.  They  say  he  drinks  to  forget 
a  man  he  once  killed.    But  he's  been  to  the 


ffiHfjat  became  of  Jfflarg  iSllen  243 


legislature,  and  everybody  else  puts  up  with 
him,  and  I  suppose  we'll  have  to.  Yes;  I 
reckon  the  Colonel  goes  with  the  paper. 99 

Jim  and  his  bright-eyed  staff  soon  became 
comrades,  for  there  was  but  eight  years  differ- 
ence in  their  ages,  a  space  that  youth  and 
sympathy  find  small  difficulty  in  spanning. 
Otherwise,  however,  time  was  an  item  in  the 
little  country  office,  and  it  excited  the  boy's 
admiration  to  see  his  chief  setting  unwritten 
editorials  to  save  it.  But  it  was  when  the 
clean-limbed,  muscular  young  editor  did  the 
giant  swing  on  the  horizontal  bar  in  the  rear 
of  the  office  that  the  lad  would  have  died  for 
him. 

However,  this  bit  of  hero-worship  not  being 
required  of  him,  Tom  did  something  that 
pleased  his  chief  far  better;  he  introduced 
Evans  to  his  pretty  cousin,  Jennie  Hamlin, 
and  erelong  Jim  had  another  incentive  to 
spur  him  on  in  the  race  for  journalistic  suc- 
cess. 

The  Chronicle  office  faced  Oakville's  princi- 
pal street.  Evans  put  his  case  and  stool  at 
one  window,  and  Tom  Wilson  placed  his  by 
the  other.  Editor  could  look  up  Mulberry 
Street,  and  the  staff  down.  This  arrange- 
ment saved  the  expense  of  a.  reporter,  for 


244  aiafiama  Sftetcfjes 


nothing,  from  a  dog-fight  to  a  shooting  scrape, 
could  happen  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  but  the 
eagle  eye  of  the  Chronicle  was  upon  it,  and  the 
editor  or  staff  swooped  down,  note-book  in 
hand. 

But  there  were  days  and  weeks  when  noth- 
ing would  happen — when  not  even  the  dogs 
would  fight — days  when  the  rain  fell,  and  the 
wind  sobbed  through  the  old  Southern  town, 
and  the  ox-wagons  creaked  dirges,  while  the 
wet  street,  littered  with  soiled  locks  of  cotton 
and  bedraggled  corn  husks,  presented  a  vista 
of  desolation. 

These  were  trying  times. 

"It's  disgusting!"  cried  Tom  one  day  in 
despair.  "Nobody's  died,  nobody's  married, 
and  nobody's  been  born  in  three  weeks! 
Now's  the  time  for  the  Colonel  to  take  the 
jimjams.  If  the  Colonel  would  only  get  the 
monkeys  after  him  and  hang  himself,  just 
think  how  we  might  scoop  the  Argus!" 

Next  week  a  circus  struck  the  town — Hind- 
foot's  Great  Show — "nine  circuses  com- 
bined"— and  Tom  was  in  ecstasy. 

"Now  we'll  have  plenty  of  copy,"  said  the 
boy,  gleefully.  "There's  always  a  scrap  in 
Oakville  after  the  night's  performance. 
Somebody  always  gets  stabbed  or  shot,  or 


5l29f)at  became  of  JHarg  iBilen  245 


something;  and  then  there's  the  trial.  This 
circus  will  last  us  almost  till  Christmas. " 

The  circus  had  been  billed  for  weeks.  Im- 
mense posters  flared  up  and  down  Mulberry 
Street,  from  bill-boards  of  undressed  plank. 
Countrymen  and  negroes  stared  open-mouthed 
at  the  mammoth  jaws  of  huge  hippopotami 
swallowing  hip-clouted  heathen,  and  elephants 
brandishing  Hindoo  babies  in  their  gyrating 
trunks.  But  the  picture  that  excited  most 
horror  was  a  lurid  representation  of  the 
female  anaconda,  4  4  Mary  Ellen/ '  The  artist 
of  this  poster  had  made  a  free  copy  of  the 
Laocoon  in  blue,  yellow,  and  green,  and  the 
effect  was  blood-curdling. 

4 4 Oh,  she's  a  corker!"  said  the  advance 
agent,  as  he  posted  Mary  Ellen's  likeness  on 
the  board.  "She's  not  so  awful  big,  but 
she's  crushed  five  men  to  death,  and  Hind- 
foot  wouldn't  take  ten  thousand  dollars  for 
her." 

Tom,  who  was  standing  near,  heard  this 
thrilling  statement,  and  wrote  a  paragraph  in 
the  Chronicle  that  spread  Mary  Ellen's  fame 
far  and  wide.  But  such  is  the  nature  of  man, 
that  though  people  shuddered  at  the  picture 
and  shivered  over  the  paragraph,  strange  to 
relate  they  found  the  sensation  rather  pleas- 


246  aiafiama  j&ftetcfjes 


ant  than  otherwise,  never  dreaming  that  Oak- 
ville  would  ever  have  more  than  a  spectatorial 
acquaintance  with  the  fateful  Mary  Ellen;  yet 
so  it  was,  and  this  was  the  manner  of  it: 

It  was  eleven  o'clock;  the  night  perform- 
ance had  ended,  and  Evans  was  leaving  the 
tent  with  Jennie  Hamlin  on  his  arm,  when  a 
horrible  shriek  rang  from  the  tent  into  the 
flaring  torch-illumined  night.  Simultaneously 
came  a  confused  chorus  of  voices:  4 4 Shoot 
her!"  4 4 Shoot  her — no,  cut  her,  cut  her!" 
"Too  late,  she's  lettin'  go!" — followed  by  a 
babel  of  curses  and  screams  from  men  and 
women  fleeing  in  all  directions. 

Evans  drew  Jennie  to  one  side  to  guard  her 
from  the  crush,  and  with  vague  guesses  at  the 
cause  of  the  panic  they  paused  for  the  excite- 
ment to  subside  before  resuming  their  way. 
As  they  stood  waiting,  Tom  dashed  up. 

"It's  Mary  Ellen,  the  big  snake!  She's 
gotten  out  and  crushed  the  'living  skeleton,'  " 
cried  the  boy,  in  one  breath,  and  he  dashed 
back  under  the  swaying  tent,  which  trembled 
and  shook  in  the  gusty  light,  suggestive  of  an 
antediluvian  mammoth  in  mortal  pain. 

Jim  feared  that  Jennie  would  faint,  or  at 
least  scream  as  the  other  women  were  doing, 
when  she  heard  Tom's  dreadful  announce- 


M&at  became  of  JJlars  3BUm  247 


ment,  but  she  did  neither.  She  merely  clung 
to  his  arm  and  trembled. 

That  no  one  knoweth  when  his  hour  cometh 
is  true  of  other  things  than  death.  It  is 
equally  true  of  love,  and  quite  as  veracious  in 
the  matter  of  the  avowal ;  for  what  man  know- 
eth when  he  is  going  to  propose?  Evans  cer- 
tainly did  not.  He  had  planned  it  many  times, 
and  had  even  selected  the  words  he  intended 
to  say,  but  at  each  occasion  the  word  and  the 
moment  never  seemed  to  fit,  though  every  day 
his  love  kept  growing  stronger  and  stronger, 
and  bigger  and  bigger,  till  it  seemed  to  him 
he  would  have  to  get  a  larger  body  to  hold  his 
heart.  And  now  all  suddenly  as  he  felt  the 
arm  of  the  little  woman  he  loved  quivering  in 
his  own,  he  told  his  love  almost  before  he  was 
aware. 

As  for  Jennie,  she  had  long  known  that 
Evans  loved  her;  her  only  doubts  had  been  in 
regard  to  her  own  feelings.  But  when  in  her 
fright  she  clung  to  his  muscular  arm,  and  per- 
ceived how  cool  he  was  in  all  the  panic,  his 
voice  as  firm  as  his  flesh,  the  young  editor 
rose  rapidly  in  her  esteem.  However,  it  was 
not  till  she  saw  his  coolness  transformed  to 
ardor  and  anxiety  as  he  told  her  his  love  and 
waited  her  answer,  that  her  tottering  doubts 


248  aiafiama  S&etcfjes 


tumbled  and  she  lost  her  heart  to  Jim  for- 
ever. 

It  was  just  as  they  reached  Mrs.  Hamlin's 
door  that  the  young  man's  ear  caught  Jennie's 
trembling  "yes. "  And  then  came  the  hardest 
act  of  his  life,  for  she  insisted  that  he  should 
leave  her  immediately  and  go  back  to  Tom  to 
keep  him  from  becoming  the  prey  of  "that 
dreadful  snake."  He  tried  to  remonstrate, 
but  Jennie  closed  the  door,  and  with  his 
betrothal  kiss  warm  upon  his  lips,  he  hurried 
away  to  Tom,  loading  Mary  Ellen  with  mar- 
row-freezing objurgations  at  every  breath. 

When  Tom  Wilson  burst  back  into  the  circus 
tent,  the  spectators  had  all  fled  and  Mary 
Ellen  had  disappeared  under  a  heap  of  fallen 
seats  and  tent-poles  which  the  frightened 
people  had  overturned.  Around  this  chaotic 
mass  of  lumber  the  infuriated  Hindfoot  was 
making  the  air  blue  with  oaths,  while  a  knot 
of  employees  nervously  stirred  the  timbers.  A 
glance  told  that  they  had  no  wish  to  recover 
the  object  of  their  search,  and  if  it  were  found 
they  would  all  flee  incontinently. 

Eager  for  copy,  Tom  passed  on  and  entered 
the  circus  green-room.  It  was  a  poorly  lighted 
place,  smelling  vilely  of  kerosene.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  the  comfortless  place  a  group  of  jaded 


SSifjat  became  of  JEarg  ISlien  249 


performers,  still  in  their  fleshings  and  spangles, 
were  gathered  about  the  anaconda's  victim. 

"He's  dead,"  said  the  clown,  and  a  tear 
rolled  down  his  chalk-white  face  made  up  in  a 
perpetual  smile.  Recognizing  by  Tom's  note- 
book that  he  was  a  representative  of  the  press, 
the  grief-stricken  man  added:  4 4 He  was  my 
brother,  and  that  needn't  have  happened. 
Anacondas  eat  only  once  in  three  months. 
The  snake  should  have  been  fed  last  week  at 
Gainesville.    She  was  hungry;  that  was  all." 

When  Tom  regained  the  searching  party  it 
had  left  the  tent.  Some  one  had  discovered 
the  serpent's  trail  in  the  mud  outside,  and  the 
men  were  trying  to  track  her  by  the  aid  of 
pine  torches — a  difficult  thing  to  do,  for  the 
trail  was  effaced  every  few  yards  by  the  foot- 
prints of  men  and  horses.  The  reptile  had 
evidently  been  bewildered,  for  there  were 
many  turns  in  her  course.  Finally,  however, 
it  took  the  direction  of  Mulberry  Street  and 
the  heart  of  the  town. 

"They'll  not  find  her  to-night,"  said  Evans, 
who  had  joined  the  searchers. 

"No,"  said  the  boy;  "and  they  don't  want 
to." 

Still  Hindfoot  urged  on  the  search,  and 
lanterns  and  torches  passed  and  repassed  each 


250  aiafiama  Sftetdjes 


other  in  ever-widening  circles,  while  the 
bearers  muttered  curses  under  their  breath, 
and  wished  Mary  Ellen  in  the  bottomless  pit. 

By  and  by,  when  even  Hindfoot  was  begin- 
ning to  despair,  some  one  cried  out — no  one 
knew  who — that  Mary  Ellen  had  been  discov- 
ered opposite  Biggs's  bar-room.  At  this  all 
threw  down  their  torches  and  rushed  tumult- 
ously to  the  spot. 

The  report  was  false.  There  was  no  ser- 
pent in  front  of  Biggs's  establishment,  though 
some  of  the  men  about  its  hospitable  door  had 
seen  many  snakes  in  their  time,  and  doubtless 
were  destined  to  see  many  more.  Among 
them  was  Colonel  Badham.  It  was  probably 
the  Colonel  who  had  given  rise  to  the  false 
rumor,  for  when  the  breathless  throng  arrived 
at  the  saloon  the  Colonel,  full  of  eloquence 
and  "cough  mixture,' '  was  haranguing  a  group 
of  jolly  bottle-mates  on  natural  history,  and 
making  frequent  reference  to  the  snakes  he 
had  seen  "before  the  war." 

"The  blamed  old  fool!"  exclaimed  the 
angry  and  disappointed  Hindfoot;  "I  guess 
he's  seen  his  share.  But  if  he  meets  Mary 
Ellen  on  his  way  home  to-night  he'll  never 
see  another  in  his  lifetime,  for  she's  as  hungry 
as  a  wolf,  and  I'll  bet  my  biggest  elephant 


M&at  became  of  JWars  iElien  251 


she'll  swallow  something  live  before  morn- 
ing." 

The  impresario  of  the  hippodrome  then 
mounted  an  empty  whisky-barrel,  and  discour- 
teously interrupting  the  Colonel,  offered  in  a 
loud  voice  a  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars 
for  the  recovery  in  good  condition  of  his  lost 
attraction.  Tidings  in  regard  to  the  same,  he 
said,  could  be  telegraphed  to  Meridian,  Mis- 
sissippi. 

The  people  then  dispersed,  for  it  was  past 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  as  they  scat- 
tered to  their  homes,  looking  carefully  to  their 
teet,  they  marvelled  much  by  the  way  what 
had  become  of  Mary  Ellen. 

No  one  claimed  the  five-hundred-dollar 
reward.  Daylight  brought  no  solution  of  the 
mystery  of  Mary  Ellen's  whereabouts.  Nor 
were  the  irate  Hindfoot's  fears  for  Colonel 
Badham  fulfilled;  for  that  rubicund  gentle- 
man reappeared  on  time  at  the  Chronicle  office 
next  day  with  a  replenished  bottle  of  "cough 
mixture"  and  the  same  desire  to  keep  posted 
in  regard  to  the  utterances  of  the  press.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  little  redder  of  countenance, 
and  more  wheezy  of  breath,  after  last  night's 
bout,  but  that  was  all. 

The  good  people  of  Oakville,  as  one  might 


252  aiafiama  §&ttt§t$ 


suppose,  longed  ardently  for  the  recovery  of 
the  lost  serpent.  How  could  they  feel  easy 
when  such  a  ferocious  reptile  was  at  large  in 
their  midst?  Had  it  been  a  lion  or  a  tiger 
that  had  escaped,  they  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  anxious.  Tigers  and  lions  are 
addicted  to  roaring  and  might  perhaps  give 
warning  of  their  approach.  But  a  slimy  rep- 
tile that  crept  on  its  belly  without  making  any 
noise  louder  than  a  hiss — why,  it  was  horrible 
to  contemplate.  If  it  always  remained  upon 
the  ground  one  might  be  on  guard  against  the 
creature,  but  anacondas  were  also  arboreal  in 
their  habits,  and  often  lassoed,  so  to  speak, 
their  prey  from  trees.  Oakville  was  full  of 
umbrageous  water-oaks;  they  fairly  lined  its 
streets,  and  were  the  city's  boast.  Hence- 
forth the  pride  of  the  town  would  become 
coignes  of  terror.  Even  the  cause  of  religion 
would  suffer,  for  who  would  dare  to  attend 
Thursday  evening  prayer  meeting  not  know- 
ing when  they  might  be  lifted  from  their  feet 
into  the  air,  to  be  crushed  and  swallowed 
in  the  top  of  the  tree  by  the  horrible  mon- 
ster? 

Popular  fear  was  not  lessened  when  it  be- 
came known  that  Fido,  the  pet  pug  of  Miss 
Betsy  Mayberry,  had  never  been  seen  since 


ftSIJjat  became  of  J&arg  lEllen  253 


the  eventful  night.  Of  course  Mary  Ellen 
had  eaten  him.  Hindfoot  had  foretold  that 
something  live  would  be  swallowed  before 
day. 

Who  would  be  the  next?  The  town  was 
terror-stricken. 

Great  was  the  relief  given  by  a  paragraph 
in  the  Chronicle,  stating  that  as  anacondas  ate 
but  once  in  three  months,  Fido's  death  would 
secure  immunity  for  that  period,  and  before 
the  time  was  up  the  reptile  would  probably  be 
found. 

At  this  the  people  quieted  down,  and  some 
one  remarked — not  in  Miss  Mayberry's  hear- 
ing— that  since  ' 'something  live"  had  to  do 
the  Quintus  Curtius  act  and  save  the  city  by 
leaping  into  the  yawning  gulf  of  Mary  Ellen's 
interior,  fate  had  chosen  wisely  in  offering  up 
Miss  Betsy's  pudgy  pet. 

Meantime  the  Chronicle  had  prospered  be- 
yond Evans's  dearest  hopes,  and  he  asked 
Jennie  Hamlin  to  set  the  day,  and  with  a 
blush  she  had  named  the  14th  of  February. 

"Why  not  the  14th  of  January?"  asked  the 
impatient  Jim. 

"Because  the  14th  of  February  is  St.  Valen- 
tine's day,  when  the  birds  mate." 

"And  the  daffodils   bloom,"  added  Jim. 


254  aiatiama  SfcetdKS 


"We'll  have  a  daffodil  wedding,"  said  the 
happy  fellow. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  Nothing  is  more 
capricious  than  an  Alabama  winter.  Valen- 
tine's day  arrived,  and  with  it  the  coldest 
weather  of  the  year.  It  snowed  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  the  afternoon  it  grew  colder  and 
colder.  The  absence  of  the  pretty  yellow 
flowers,  however,  was  a  small  disappointment 
to  Jim,  for  no  cold  could  freeze  the  daffodil 
gold  in  his  little  bride's  hair. 

Tom  had  requested  the  privilege  of  doing 
the  wedding  "  copy"  for  the  Chronicle,  and  Jim 
consented.  The  two  worked  all  day  on  the 
paper  till  four  o'clock.  Then  Jim  struck  work 
and  went  to  buy  his  license.  The  wedding 
would  be  at  eight,  and  he  told  Tom  he  might 
also  quit  work,  but  the  boy  remained  to  fill  up 
his  galley — a  few  sticks  would  do  it. 

After  working  a  few  minutes  his  fingers  be- 
came numb.  The  fire  had  gotten  low,  and  as 
he  warmed  his  hands  at  the  stove  it  occurred 
to  him  to  go  down  in  the  cellar  and  bring 
up  coal  and  kindling  for  the  next  morning's 
fire.  He  lifted  the  trap  door  and  descended 
with  the  coal-bucket.  It  was  almost  dark  in 
the  cellar,  for  night  was  coming  on  rapidly 
outside;  but  he  managed  to  fill  his  bucket. 


M&at  iSecattu  of  JSarg  ISUen  255 


When  he  returned  to  the  cellar  for  the  light- 
wood  he  brought  a  lighted  candle,  but  as  he 
descended  the  steps  a  gust  of  wind  extin- 
guished it.  With  an  impatient  exclamation 
he  went  on,  still  holding  the  unlighted  candle 
in  his  hand. 

The  kindling  was  in  the  farthest  part  of  the 
cellar  next  the  street.  Groping  along  in  the 
darkness  and  feeling  around  with  bent  body 
for  the  lightwood,  he  suddenly  detected  a 
peculiar  and  unpleasant  odor.  The  next 
moment  his  right  foot  came  in  contact  with 
an  elastic  substance  that  gave  against  his  toe 
like  a  half-inflated  bicycle  tire.  He  leaned 
down  and  touched  the  object  with  his  hand, 
and  instinctively  sprang  backward  with  a  thrill 
of  horror  that  almost  caused  his  heart  to  stop 
beating.  A  dreadful  suspicion  floated  through 
his  brain,  and  drawing  a  match  from  his  pocket 
he  lit  the  candle. 

It  was  the  anaconda! 

At  first  the  boy  was  almost  paralyzed  by 
fright.  He  was  so  terrified  he  could  scarcely 
stand.  But  as  the  reptile  did  not  move  he 
gradually  gained  command  of  himself.  The 
great  snake  was  torpid  evidently,  and  quite 
harmless  by  reason  of  the  cold. 

Tom's  first  impulse  was  to  kill  it,  and  he 


256  Alabama  Sftetcfjes 


drew  his  knife  and  opened  it  with  the  inten- 
tion to  bury  the  long,  keen  blade  in  the  ser- 
pents head.  Then  he  recollected  the  five- 
hundred-dollar  reward  offered  by  Hindfoot, 
and  how  he  might  scoop  the  Argus  if  he 
secured  Mary  Ellen  alive,  and  he  returned  the 
knife  to  his  pocket. 

Looking  about  him  in  the  cellar,  he  found 
a  good-sized  wooden  box  into  which  he  cau- 
tiously slid  the  snake.  Then  he  nailed  some 
stout  slats  across  the  top,  and  Mary  Ellen  was 
again  a  prisoner. 

How  had  the  snake  gotten  into  the  place, 
he  wondered,  when  his  heart  began  to  beat 
more  calmly. 

A  draught  on  his  head  gave  him  a  clue,  and 
following  it  up,  he  discovered,  by  the  aid  of 
his  candle,  an  open  brick-work  ventilator  in 
the  side  wall  next  to  the  street,  from  which 
several  bricks  were  missing,  leaving  an  aper- 
ture quite  large  enough  for  the  anaconda's 
entrance,  Fido  included. 

His  curiosity  satisfied  on  this  point,  it  oc- 
curred to  Tom  that,  the  fire  being  now  extinct 
in  the  stove,  and  the  cold  rapidly  increasing 
outside,  Mary  Ellen's  sleep  would  be  far 
sounder  in  the  room  above  than  in  the  damp 
cellar,  which  was  comparatively  warm.  So, 


&2Rf)at  became  of  iffilars  mim  257 


with  an  effort,  he  removed  the  caged  serpent  to 
the  sanctum  and  returned  for  the  lightwood. 
When  all  was  done  he  donned  his  overcoat  and 
cap,  and  resolved  to  keep  his  great  find  a 
secret. 

"Golly!  the  Argus  won't  be  in  it  when  I 
work  this  scoop  on  'em!"  exclaimed  Tom, 
with  ungrammatical  pride.  "And  Lord,  how 
tickled  Jim'll  be!  We'll  get  the  five-hundred- 
dollar  reward.  Great  Scott!  I  never  ex- 
pected to  make  such  a  raise  as  that  in  ten 
minutes  without  any  capital.  Jiminy  Crick- 
ets! but  it  knocks  the  socks  off  them  Wall 
Street  fellows. " 

And  overcome  by  extravagant  joy,  the  boy 
danced  the  double  shuffle  in  the  middle  of  the 
sanctum,  then  hurried  away  to  dress  for  the 
wedding,  slamming  the  door  behind  him  and 
leaving  the  lamp  still  burning,  in  the  oblivion 
of  his  glee,  and  the  office  door  unlocked. 

It  was  a  rare  occurrence  for  Colonel  Bad- 
ham  to  miss  a  day  at  the  Chronicle  office,  but 
on  Jim  Evans's  wedding  morn  the  snow  and 
cold  kept  him  at  his  home  in  the  suburbs. 

The  day  had  been  very  dull.  Toward  night- 
fall he  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  with 
clearing  weather,  despite  the  violent  wind  and 


258  aiafcama  &kttti)t8 


great  cold,  he  set  forth  to  replenish  his  bottle 
and  learn  what  had  transpired  in  the  political 
world  since  the  preceding  day. 

A  bottle  newly  filled  at  Biggs's,  a  bright 
light  beaming  from  the  Chronicle  window,  and 
a  table  full  of  exchanges  in  prospect,  com- 
bined to  make  the  old  politician  unusually 
cheerful  as  he  approached  the  office,  scarce 
five  minutes  after  Tom's  exit.  But  his  good 
humor  changed  to  irritation  on  entering  the 
door. 

"It's  cold,"  said  the  Colonel. 
He  went  to  the  stove. 

"Fire  out — lamp  in  full  blast — nobody  at 
work!  What  does  it  mean?"  he  added,  with 
increased  disgust,  by  the  cold  stove  whose 
bituminous  coals  had  all  grown  gray. 

"Ah,  I  remember;  it's  Evans's  wedding 
night,"  with  a  grunt.  "Evans  is  a  fool,  and 
Tom's  crazy.  Lucky  I  came,  or  the  house 
might  have  burned  up." 

The  Colonel  had  received  an  invitation,  and 
had  intended  to  be  present,  but  he  had  quite 
forgotten  the  wedding.  He  looked  at  his 
watch;  half-past  six.  It  was  too  late  and  too 
cold  to  go  home  now  and  don  a  wedding  gar- 
ment. Moreover,  the  unread  newspapers 
looked  very  tempting,  and  as  his  glance  fell 


aSEfjat  became  of  ifKlars  lEllen  259 


upon  Tom's  lightwood  and  coal,  he  decided 
to  build  a  fire  in  the  stove  and  spend  a  cozy 
evening. 

Any  change  in  the  interior  of  a  room  attracts 
the  attention  of  a  daily  visitor.  The  Colonel 
noted  the  slat-covered  box  in  which  Mary 
Eflen  reposed,  but  gave  it  little  thought. 
Evans's  subscribers  in  the  hills  where  dwelt 
the  cracker  whites  often  paid  their  dues  in  the 
produce  of  the  country.  Potatoes,  turnips, 
fruit,  and  even  game,  all  contributed  from 
time  to  time  to  the  Chronicle }s  exchequer. 
The  first  time  the  Colonel  had  seen  this  very 
box  it  had  contained  a  live  opossum,  and  now 
he  supposed  that  it  held  another.  Conse- 
quently when  he  stumbled  against  it  while 
building  the  fire  he  pushed  the  box  with  his 
foot  behind  him  into  the  middle  of  the  room 
with  an  impatient,  "Blame  that  'possum!" 
and  sitting  down  by  the  stove,  was  soon  lost 
to  his  surroundings  in  the  beloved  exchanges. 

The  old  man  had  laid  a  noble  fire  with  Jim's 
fuel,  and  in  a  few  moments  bleakness  fled  the 
room.  The  stove  blushed  like  a  rose,  causing 
the  old  tomato-can  of  water  on  its  top  to  sing 
like  a  spinster's  tea-pot.  Oh,  but  it  was  cozy! 
Could  the  perfume  of  flowers  have  been  sub- 
stituted  for  the  indescribable  odor  of  sour 


260  aiafiama  &kttt$t$ 


paste,  printers'  ink,  and  coal  dust,  character- 
istic of  the  rural  sanctum,  the  air  would  have 
been  like  May. 

"This  is  something  like  living,"  thought 
the  Colonel,  as  he  laid  down  the  Atlanta  Con- 
stitution to  take  a  nip  from  his  beloved  bottle. 

How  quiet  it  was!  Not  a  sound  was  heard 
but  the  scratching  of  a  mouse  in  a  heap  of 
paper  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  Even  this 
rustling  ceased  as  the  tiny  creature  left  its 
nest-building  and  pattered  forth  to  for- 
age for  the  crumbs  fallen  from  Tom's  lunch- 
basket. 

Retreating  several  times  at  the  rattle  of  the 
Colonel's  newspaper,  it  finally  reached  the 
centre  of  the  room  and  the  slat-covered  box. 
Sniffing  a  moment  at  the  bottom,  the  mouse 
crept  up  the  side  to  enter.  Instinct  is  un- 
erring. The  little  creature  had  never  seen  a 
snake,  yet  when  it  peered  through  the  first 
crack  it  gave  a  panic-stricken  squeak  and 
dashed  away  to  a  hole  in  the  floor. 

Meanwhile,  with  the  door  and  windows 
closed,  the  temperature  of  the  office  had  been 
raised  by  the  red-hot  stove  to  summer  heat. 
The  luxurious  warmth  had  made  the  Colonel 
draw  back  his  chair,  and  had  gradually  per- 
meated even   the  chilled  and   torpid  Mary 


fflaifjat  became  of  JBlarg  ISllen  261 


Ellen's  tropical  curves,  till  it  needed  but  the 
odor  of  the  mouse  to  waken  her.  At  the  little 
animal's  terrified  squeak  the  anaconda  blinked 
her  eyes  in  the  growing  consciousness  of  her 
three  months'  fast. 

Did  the  unaccustomed  warmth  bring  back 
happy  memories  of  lush  jungles  and  Afric's 
sunny  fountains,  or  did  her  cramped  quarters 
irritate  the  snake  into  an  effort  for  freedom? 
Tom  had  deemed  the  box  secure,  but  with  one 
twist  of  her  lithe  body,  Mary  Ellen  popped  off 
two  slats  and  slid  half  her  flexible  length  into 
the  room. 

The  Colonel  heard  the  noise,  but  did  not 
turn  around  to  look.  He  merely  laid  down 
the  Constitution  and  picked  up  the  Courier- 
Journal.  Let  the  opossum  escape  if  it  could; 
it  was  nothing  to  him.  If  it  got  away,  per- 
haps Tom  would  be  blamed,  and  he  did  not 
like  Tom.  So  he  took  another  drink  and 
continued  to  read. 

Freed  from  her  prison  the  reptile  paused. 
She  seemed  thirsty  as  well  as  hungry,  for  she 
hesitated  between  the  man  and  the  pail  of 
drinking-water  which  stood  on  a  splint-bot- 
tomed chair  by  the  door.  Thirst  conquered, 
and  she  glided  noiselessly  to  the  water-pail 
and  drank  half  its  contents. 


262  &la6ama  Sttetcijes 


Meanwhile  the  Colonel  read  on  unconscious 
of  his  peril.  Absorbed  in  a  well-written  edi- 
torial, he  bent  the  sheet  as  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  column.  The  rustle  of  the 
paper  drew  the  attention  of  the  reptile,  and 
turning  from  the  water-pail  with  a  greedy 
glitter  in  her  eyes,  she  started  toward  him. 

Had  the  old  politician  been  young  and 
active,  his  situation  would  have  been  perilous; 
but  old,  wheezy,  and  half-intoxicated,  his 
case  was  well-nigh  desperate.  The  advancing 
snake  was  between  him  and  the  door;  the  two 
rear  windows  were  both  closed,  and  he  had  no 
weapon.  It  appeared  as  if  the  anaconda 
would  seize  him  and  crush  him  in  her  coils  ere 
he  was  aware  of  his  danger.  But  fate  seemed 
resolved  that  he  should  not  perish  by  violence 
nor  fill  any  but  a  drunkard's  grave,  for  by  a 
strange  dispensation  of  Providence,  the  appe- 
tite for  drink  that  had  wrecked  his  health  and 
ruined  his  life  came  to  his  aid. 

It  was  several  minutes  since  the  Colonel 
had  taken  a  nip,  and  when  the  snake  had 
glided  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  the  old  man 
reached  for  the  bottle.  At  the  motion  the 
snake  hissed,  and  the  horrid  sound  lifted  him 
to  his  feet  shaking  like  one  palsied.  He 
turned. 


S2Rf)at  became  of  JHarg  3BUm  263 


Was  it  a  real  snake,  or  only  a  phantom  of 
drink? 

A  second  hiss  brought  a  shriek  of  terror 
from  the  old  man,  and  rushing  to  the  rear  of 
the  room,  upsetting  and  happily  extinguishing 
the  lamp  in  his  fright,  he  plunged  headlong 
through  the  glass  window  sash  out  into  the 
snow. 

At  the  moment  of  the  Colonel's  precipitate 
exit  there  were  no  eyes  to  witness  the  flying 
leap,  for  excessive  cold  had  driven  the  good 
people  of  Oakville  to  their  hearthstones;  and 
it  was  only  by  chance  that  his  terrified  shriek 
reached  the  ears  of  a  human  being. 

Two  blocks  distant  Jim  Evans  was  on  his 
way  to  his  wedding.  There  had  been  some 
delay  in  obtaining  his  marriage  license.  In 
his  bachelor  ignorance  the  young  editor  had 
thought  it  would  be  as  simple  a  matter  as  buy- 
ing a  postage-stamp.  It  was  more  like  filing 
a  bill  in  chancery. 

Finally  extricating  himself  from  the  snarl  of 
red-tape,  he  hurried  away  from  the  probate 
office  with  the  indispensable  document,  to 
dress.  Annoyance  pursued  him.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  Dick  Hamlin,  Jennie's  brother, 
should  come  to  him  at  7:40.  At  7:35  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  forgotten  to  tell  Dick 


264  &la6ama  S&etcfjes 


of  his  change  of  quarters.  He  deserved  a 
kicking  for  his  forgetfulness.  He  had  moved 
his  belongings  only  a  week  ago,  and  his  former 
room  was  three-quarters  of  a  mile  distant,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  street.  If  Dick  went 
there  for  him  and  was  directed  to  his  new 
abode  there  would  be  full  ten  minutes*  delay, 
perhaps  more,  and  if  he  were  tardy  at  his 
wedding  he  would  feel  disgraced.  He  would 
not  keep  his  bride  waiting,  for  her  weight  in 
gold.    He  must  meet  Dick  half-way. 

It  was  starlight.  Through  the  wide  wind- 
tossed  boughs  of  the  trees  by  the  sidewalk  the 
stars  flashed  fitfully  like  a  swarm  of  fireflies. 
Another  time  he  would  have  blessed  their 
obscure  illumination,  but  to-night,  haste- 
driven,  he  longed  for  the  more  effectual  radi- 
ance of  street  lights  which  Oakville  did  not 
boast.  And  the  wind — he  had  to  hold  his  hat 
on,  while  the  great  bare  water-oaks  groaned 
in  the  fierce  blast  which  snapped  their  dead 
twigs  and  sent  them  hurtling  downward. 

Turning  a  corner  he  saw  his  sanctum  bril- 
liantly illuminated.  It  was  the  Colonel,  of 
course,  and  he  hoped  the  old  man  would  keep 
sober  enough  not  to  set  the  place  afire. 
Following  this  thought  came  the  Colonel's 
yell. 


aSEfiat  became  of  ifilarg  lEUen  265 


Delirium  tremens  and  a  lighted  lamp  in  an 
inflammable  printing-office! 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
and  ran  toward  the  place  at  full  speed. 

If  Colonel  Badham's  exit  from  the  Chron- 
icle's back  window  be  likened  to  the  perform- 
ance of  a  circus  girl  through  a  paper  hoop,  the 
latter  half  of  his  flying  leap  resembled  the  feat 
known  in  gymnasiums  as  the  porpoise  dive.  For 
a  moment  he  lay  stunned  upon  the  snow.  For- 
tunately for  his  neck  a  piece  of  castaway  stove- 
piping  and  some  barrel-staves  had  broken 
his  fall,  though  in  doing  so  they  had  gashed 
his  forehead  and  torn  his  clothing.  But  the 
wound  on  his  face  and  the  cuts  caused  by  the 
broken  window-glass  assisted  the  icy  air  in 
restoring  him  to  consciousness. 

However,  the  low  temperature  did  not  drive 
all  the  fumes  of  whisky  from  his  head,  and  his 
brain  was  far  from  clear  when,  bareheaded 
and  with  snow  and  blood  sticking  to  his  gray 
hair,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  sped  through  the 
night. 

Yet  of  one  thing  he  was  sure.  It  was  no 
hallucination  of  drink,  but  a  real  serpent  that 
he  had  seen,  though  how  it  had  gotten  into 
the  Chronicle  office  he  did  not  try  to  fathom. 


266  aiafcama  i&fcetcfjes 


Then  like  a  flash,  as  he  ran,  came  the  thought 
that  his  fearful  assailant  must  be  Hindfoot's 
snake,  and  that  the  next  person  who  entered 
the  office  unwarned  would  surely  be  crushed. 
No  sooner  had  this  idea  entered  the  Colonel's 
poor  drink-fevered  brain  than  he  began  to 
fancy  that  such  a  catastrophe  was  already 
happening.  In  another  twenty  yards  it 
seemed  to  him  he  could  hear  the  noise  of  a 
struggle  in  the  room  behind  him,  and  in 
twenty  steps  more  his  head  was  in  such  a 
jumble  he  was  incapable  of  distinguishing  fact 
from  fancy.  An  impulse,  born  perhaps  of 
rapid  motion,  drove  him  to  tell  his  story  and 
seek  help,  and  in  the  wake  of  this  impulse  fol- 
lowed the  thought  that  the  surest  and  quick- 
est succor  against  the  snake  could  be  found 
at  Biggs's  bar-room,  which  was  always  full  of 
men. 

A  moment  more  and  the  Colonel  passed 
bareheaded  and  bleeding  into  the  bright  glow 
that  shot  forth  like  a  great  red  tongue  from 
the  bar-room  door. 

Biggs's  establishment,  a  noisy  place  at  all 
times,  and  especially  noisy  at  night,  was 
divided  into  three  compartments.  The  first, 
a  kind  of  entry  lit  up  by  a  large  red  lamp, 
contained  a  small  tobacco-counter.    The  bar- 


M&at  became  of  ifStarg  iSlUn  267 


room  proper  was  divided  from  this  vestibule 
and  hidden  from  the  street  by  a  screen,  behind 
which  gleamed  the  Circean  smiles  of  glisten- 
ing crystal  and  many-coiored  liquors,  to 
whose  potent  spells  the  rattle  of  dominoes 
and  the  clicking  of  billiard-balls  added  an 
alluring  accompaniment.  Separated  from 
this  glittering  shrine  ot  Bacchus  by  a  lattice 
was  a  smaller  and  less  brilliantly  lit  apart- 
ment, where  the  god's  dusky  devotees  befud- 
dled their  woolly  heads  for  less  money. 

The  rites  were  at  their  noisiest  when  the 
Colonel  burst  in,  but  in  an  instant  all  mirth 
ceased.  Here  was  something  more  amusing 
than  billiards  or  dominoes.  Drinkers  put 
down  their  glasses  half  consumed,  on  the  bar, 
players  deserted  their  tables,  and  all  came 
to  the  front.  Even  the  negroes,  imbibing 
"tangle-foot"  and  "red-eye"  for  five  cents  a 
drink,  forgot  for  a  moment  the  color  line 
marked  by  the  second  lattice,  and  crowding 
forward,  pressed  upon  the  heels  of  the  white 
men. 

"Are  you  sure  it's  a  snake,  and  not  a  mon- 
key?" exclaimed  one  of  the  latter,  when  the 
old  man  had  gasped  out  his  breathless  story. 

"I  say,  Colonel,  did  the  snake  swallow  your 
hat?"  cried  another,  and  these  and  similar 


268  aialiama  <SfeetcJ)e0 


sallies  were  greeted  with  peals  of  coarse 
laughter,  in  which  the  negroes  joined  uproari- 
ously. 

"Hush,  boys,"  said  Biggs,  gravely. 

4 4 Biggs,  I  tell  you  it's  true,"  reiterated  the 
Colonel,  in  agony;  44Hindfoot's  snake's  kill- 
ing some  one  at  the  Chronicle  office.  Hurry, 
for  God's  sake!" 

The  saloon-keeper  viewed  the  speaker  with 
a  thrill  of  pity. 

41  All  right,  Colonel,  don't  you  worry.  I'll 
take  care  of  the  snake.  Come  take  a  drink," 
said  Biggs,  coaxingly,  adding  softly  to  the 
by-standers:  4 4 It's  the  best  thing  for  him  till 
the  doctor  sees  him." 

The  assistant  bar-keeper  walked  to  the  door 
and  looked  up  the  street. 

4 4 See,  Colonel,  it's  all  dark  at  the  Chronicle 
office.  There's  nobody  there;  Jim  Evans  gets 
married  to-night.  Besides,  it's  too  cold  for 
snakes,  anyway.  They'd  freeze  to  death  in 
five  minutes  above  ground,  this  weather." 

The  old  man  leaned  against  the  door-jamb, 
for  he  began  to  feel  weak.  He  understood. 
They  thought  he  had  delirium  tremens.  If 
he  talked  till  daylight  he  saw  that  no  one  at 
the  bar-room  would  believe  him,  and  cursing 
in  his  heart  the  wretched  appetite  for  drink 


®2af)at  became  of  J&arg  3BUtn  269 


that  had  made  his  word  lighter  than  the  wind, 
he  shook  like  one  in  an  ague  fit. 

"By  George,  he's  got  'em  bad!"  said  a 
sympathetic  by-stander.  "Let's  take  him 
home. " 

Biggs  nodded  indorsement,  and  two  men 
stepped  forward  to  lay  hands  on  the  Colonel, 
but  he  eluded  them  and  ran  out  at  the  door. 
As  he  turned  the  corner  he  stumbled  and  fell, 
but  rising  he  hurried  on.  As  he  ran  he  wiped 
the  blood  from  his  face  and  tried  to  smooth 
his  hair.  If  he  only  had  his  hat,  and  looked 
less  wild,  he  thought,  some  one  might  give 
him  credence. 

He  turned  in  at  Brandon's  drug-store  and 
tried  to  tell  his  story  to  the  young  clerk,  but 
the  boy  fled  before  him  into  the  back  room. 

A  few  blocks  farther  on  he  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  Baptist  parsonage.  The  preacher 
listened  with  a  sorrowful  glance. 

"Come  in,  Colonel,  and  sit  down,"  said  the 
young  man,  sympathetically.  But  the  Colonel 
heard  him  whisper  to  his  wife,  "Telephone 
for  Doctor  Seyton,"  and  the  old  man  fled  the 
house.  He  was  chilled  to  the  bone,  but  he 
did  not  feel  the  cold,  for  his  excited  fancy 
pictured  the  horrible  tragedy  that  he  feared 
was  being  enacted  at   the  Chronicle  office. 


270  aiafmma  Stutcfjes 


Every  one  thought  him  mad,  and  he  felt  as  if 
he  soon  should  be  if  he  did  not  find  some  one 
to  credit  his  words.  Would  nobody  believe 
him? 

Yes,  Jim  Evans  would,  he  was  sure.  Jim 
was  always  kind,  and  even  if  he  did  not  credit 
his  story  he  would  go  with  him  to  the  place, 
if  only  to  "relieve  the  Colonel's  fears. "  It 
was  strange  Jim  had  not  entered  his  mind 
earlier. 

With  this  happy  thought  he  turned  about 
and  made  for  Evans's  room,  now  not  many 
blocks  distant,  so  rapid  had  been  his  speed. 

"Yer  ain't  gwine  find  him  dar,  suh,"  said  a 
passing  negro,  who  heard  the  Colonel's  knocks 
and  cries  at  Jim's  door. 

The  Colonel  was  dazed. 

"Lawd,  boss,  don't  yer  know  dis  is  Marse 
Evans's  weddin'  night?"  added  the  negro. 
44 He  gwine  marry  Miss  Jinny  Hamlin,  de  belle 
o'  de  town." 

The  Colonel  had  again  forgotten  the  wedding. 

It  seems  a  simple  thing  to  put  on  a  wreath 
of  orange-blossoms  and  a  veil  of  tulle.  That 
is  what  a  man  would  suppose — a  poor  ignorant 
man !  That  is  what  Tom  Wilson  thought  till 
he  saw  it  done. 


HMf>at  became  of  JHarg  IBilen  271 


Tom  had  the  freedom  of  the  house  by  right 
of  cousinship  and  as  reporter  for  the  Chronicle, 
and  he  had  come  early  that  he  might  not  miss 
anything.  He  watched  the  white  cloud  as  it 
descended  on  Jennie's  dimpled  face  and  shoul- 
ders and  settled  like  a  silver  mist  over  her 
lissome  form,  and  thought  that  was  the  end. 
It  was  hardly  the  beginning. 

44  A  little  more  to  the  right,  Hattie,"  said 
Mrs.  Hamlin.    "There — that's  better. " 

4 4 No,  Aunt  Hattie;  it's  too  far,"  said  the 
bride,  twisting  her  head  and  gazing  in  a 
hand-mirror.  4  4  Just  see  how  that  stiff  bud 
sticks  out;  it  makes  me  look  like  a  scare- 
crow." 

44 How  do  you  like  it  this  way?"  asked  Aunt 
Hattie,  moving  the  wreath  again. 

Mrs.  Hamlin  viewed  Jennie  doubtfully. 

44 1  think  it  looked  better  at  first." 

Then  the  whole  act  was  repeated. 

44 By  George,  Jennie,  you  look  as  pretty  as  a 
picture,  however  it's  fixed,"  said  Tom,  with 
admiring  eyes.  4 4 And  what  will  Jim  care? 
He  thinks  you  are  perfect  anyway." 

4 4 That's  what  he  ought  to  think,  Mr. 
Thomas,"  said  the  bride,  saucily. 

At  last  the  wreath  and  veil  were  adjusted  to 
suit  all,  and  Tom  walked  around  his  pretty 


272  aiafiama  gbtttfytz 


cousin,  who  resembled  a  plump  little  fairy 
arrayed  in  moonlit  gossamer. 

"You'll  never  be  able  to  sit  down  in  all  that 
rigging,  Jennie." 

"I  don't  intend  to;  Jennie  Hamlin  will 
never  occupy  another  chair.  When  next  she 
takes  a  seat  she'll  be  Mrs.  James  Monroe 
Evans. " 

At  this  remark  Mrs.  Hamlin  began  to  weep, 
and  Aunt  Hattie  catching  the  tearful  contagion 
followed  her  example. 

Tom  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Aunt  Sarah,  aren't  you  willing  Jennie 
should  marry  Jim?'' 
44 Yes,  Tom." 

4 4 Then  why  are  you  crying?" 

44I  can't  explain  it,  Tom.  If  you  were  a 
mother,  you  would  understand." 

When  his  aunts  had  put  by  their  handker- 
chiefs Tom  took  out  his. 

4  4  Now  what  are  you  crying  for,  you  young 
scapegrace?"  laughed  Aunt  Hattie. 

44I'm  weeping  for  poor  Jim.  Nobody's 
shedding  any  tears  for  him." 

So  they  laughed  and  wept  around  the  bride, 
for  at  weddings  it  is  ever  a  thin  and  wavering 
line  that  divides  the  smile  from  the  tears,  so 


WLfyat  became  of  JBlatg  iEUm  273 


attenuated  indeed  that  the  heart  often  mixes 
them  and  sends  forth  one  to  answer  for  the 
other.  But  there  was  no  more  sentimental 
badinage  at  Jennie's  wedding.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  Tom's  gay  mimicry  a  carriage  drove 
rapidly  to  the  gate,  and  hurried  steps  were 
heard  in  the  hall  below.  A  moment  later 
Dick  Hamlin  appeared  at  the  door  with  a 
strange  look  in  his  eyes  and  beckoned  to  his 
mother.  A  brief,  whispered  colloquy  ensued, 
and  Mrs.  Hamlin  returned  to  the  room  look- 
ing white  and  troubled. 

4 4 What  is  it,  mother?' '  said  Jennie.  4 4  Has 
Jim  come?" 

4 4 No,  my  child;  it  was  only  Dick.  He  had 
forgotten  something,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamlin, 
with  apparent  composure,  but  behind  Jennie's 
back  she  gave  Miss  Harriet  Hamlin  a  tele- 
graphic look  which  sent  her  from  the  room, 
and  Tom,  whose  keen  eyes  intercepted  the 
flash  of  alarm,  followed  her. 

Mr.  Saunders,  the  Presbyterian  minister, 
who  was  to  officiate,  and  the  last  wedding 
guest  had  arrived  some  moments  before,  and 
when  the  carriage  dashed  up  and  Dick  Ham- 
lin entered  the  house  alone,  an  expectant 
flutter  was  followed  by  a  bewildered  silence. 
There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  the 


274  aiafcama  j&feetcfjea 


young  man's  feet  that  smote  expectant  gayety 
as  the  chill  wind  of  autumn  smites  and  shat- 
ters the  full-blown  rose. 

So  sudden  and  eerie  was  the  change  from 
gay  to  grave  throughout  the  house,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  mental  affection  of  fear,  like  many 
ills  of  the  body,  had  also  its  germ — a  germ  of 
swift  and  subtle  contagion,  capable  of  pene- 
trating in  a  moment  even  closed  doors  and 
solid  walls. 

4 4 Oh,  mother!  what  is  the  matter?' '  ex- 
claimed the  bride.    "I'm  frightened !M 

Half-past  eight  found  a  conclave  of  Jennie's 
male  kindred  assembled  in  a  little  back  room. 
Dick  was  telling  of  his  search  for  the  missing 
bridegroom. 

"  It  was  agreed  that  I  should  call  for  Evans 
at  his  room,  and  I  went  at  the  appointed  hour. 
He  was  not  there.  My  first  thought  was  that, 
as  he  had  not  mentioned  his  change  of  quar- 
ters, he  might  have  supposed  I  would  go  to 
his  former  room.  I  drove  rapidly  to  the 
place.  He  was  not  there.  It  was  then  nearly 
eight  o'clock,  and  though  it  was  so  late  I 
went  back  over  my  course,  looking  into  the 
hotel  and  barber-shop  on  the  way.  Then  I 
thought,  of  course,  we  had  missed  each  other 


S2iif)at  became  of  JHatg  ISllen  275 


in  some  manner,  and  I  came  back  home  as 
fast  as  I  could. " 

The  young  fellow  spoke  rapidly  and  was 
much  excited. 

4  4  Did  you  go  to  the  Chronicle  office?' '  asked 
old  Jefferson  Hamlin,  Jennie's  eldest  uncle. 

4 4 No;  for  the  place  was  deadly  dark." 

44Did  you  ask  any  one  if  he  had  seen  Evans?" 

<4It  was  so  bitter  cold  I  met  no  one.  And 
if  I  had,  Uncle  Jeff,"  added  the  young  man, 
breathing  heavily,  44 1  couldn't  have  acted  the 
town  crier  for  the  man  who  had  promised  to 
marry  my  sister.  If  it  turns  out  that  Jim 
Evans  has  jilted  Jennie,  I'll  shoot  him  on 
sight." 

44And  if  you  don't,  I  will,"  muttered  old 
Jeff  Hamlin. 

4 4 Who  is  this  man  Evans?"  asked  a  newly 
arrived  cousin  from  Georgia,  breaking  the 
ominous  hush  that  followed.  4  4  Does  any  one 
know  anything  about  the  fellow  or  his  family?" 

44I  know  him — I  know  all  about  him,  and  if 
anybody  says  he  has  jilted  Jennie,  the  man 
lies!"  exclaimed  Tom  Wilson,  who  had  kept 
silence  till  now  in  the  presence  of  his  elders, 
springing  forward  indignantly.  4  4  If  Jim 
Evans  doesn't  come  here  to-night,  it  will  be 


276  aiafiama  Sfeetcijwi 


because — "  But  the  sentence  was  never  fin- 
ished, for  the  family  council  was  abruptly  dis- 
solved by  a  violent  slamming  of  the  front  door 
which  reverberated  through  the  house  from 
cellar  to  garret,  followed  immediately  by  a 
hoarse  voice  calling  excitedly: 

4 4 Jim  Evans!  Jim  Evans!  Where  is  Jim 
Evans?" 

Before  the  Hamlin  men  could  reach  the 
front  hall  the  house  was  in  confusion.  Upon 
the  tense  and  bodeful  calm,  broken  only  by 
anxious  whispers  here  and  there  like  the  omi- 
nous breezes  which  presage  the  tempest,  burst 
a  storm  of  excitement  in  which  all  etiquette, 
all  social  reserve,  were  swept  away.  Women 
screamed,  and  men  rushed  forward  eager  to 
learn  the  cause  of  the  uproar  and  to  offer 
assistance  if  it  were  needed,  for  all  were  con- 
vinced by  the  strange  wedding  prelude  that 
something  dreadful  had  occurred  or  was  immi- 
nent. So  hoarse  and  wild  had  been  the  voice, 
the  ears  of  none  had  recognized  the  speaker, 
and  so  changed  was  his  appearance,  the  eyes 
of  the  startled  wedding  guests  hardly  assured 
them  that  it  was  Colonel  Badham  who  stood 
before  them. 

Straightway  the  glances  of  all  sought  old 
Jeff  Hamlin.    He  was  the  oldest  man  present; 


asafiat  became  of  JBtatg  ISlien  277 


moreover,  he  and  Jennie's  father  had  been 
comrades  of  Colonel  Badham  in  the  Mexican 
War.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  spokes- 
man. 

4 4 Mortimer  Badham,' '  said  the  old  soldier, 
solemnly,  4 'why  have  you  come  to  Walter 
Hamlin's  widow's  house  this  night  in  such  a 
plight — this  night,  of  all  nights?" 

44I  want  Jim  Evans,"  replied  the  Colonel, 
shading  his  bloodshot  eyes  with  his  trembling 
hand  as  if  the  light  hurt  them.  44 1  don't  see 
him ;  where  is  he?" 

4  4  What  do  you  want  of  James  Evans,  Mort 
Badham?" 

The  Colonel  hesitated.  The  night's  experi- 
ence of  incredulity  had  made  him  wary.  He 
was  resolved  that  he  would  mention  the  snake 
to  no  one  but  Jim. 

If  he  did,  no  one  would  believe  him,  and  all 
would  deem  him  crazy  and  treat  him  as  he  had 
been  treated  elsewhere. 

44 1  want  Jim  Evans — I  have  something  to 
tell  him." 

The  two  old  men  faced  each  other  in  the 
centre  of  the  crowded  hall,  and  the  silence 
was  breathless.  Tom  Wilson  stood  at  his 
uncle's  elbow,  and  the  bride  crept  half-way 
down  the  stairs  unnoted. 


44Mort  Badham,  you  are  drunk,"  exclaimed 
Jeff  Hamlin,  catching  a  whiff  of  the  Colonel's 
whisky-laden  breath. 

44I  am  not  drunk,  Jeff  Hamlin,  and  if  I  am, 
why  can't  I  see  Jim  Evans?  He  was  married 
to-night,  and  there  is  his  bride.  I  want  Jim 
Evans.  What  have  you  done  with  him? 
Where  have  you  hidden  him?" 

As  the  Colonel  pointed  to  Jennie,  she  sank 
sobbing  on  the  stair  in  her  mother's  arms,  and 
a  murmur  of  sympathy  rose  from  the  pitying 
throng. 

Among  the  wedding  guests  stood  Miss 
Betsy  Mayberry.  For  several  moments  the 
old  lady  had  stared  through  her  spectacles 
with  features  twitching  and  quivering  with 
excitement.  At  the  Colonel's  question  she 
could  contain  herself  no  longer. 

4 4 He  is  murdered!  Jim  Evans  is  murdered! 
Mort"Badham  has  murdered  him  as  he  did  my 
brother  forty  years  ago.  Don't  you  see  the 
blood  on  his  hands?  Take  him  before  he 
escapes. " 

4 4 Betsy  Mayberry,"  said  the  old  man, 
tremulously,  44 1  killed  your  brother,  but  it 
was  in  self-defense,  as  all  the  town  knows." 

Jefferson  Hamlin  laid  his  hand  gently  on 
the  old  woman's  shoulder  as  if  to  soothe  her. 


M&at  became  of  JBlatg  3EUen  279 


"Mort  Badham,  James  Evans  is  not  in  this 
house.  He  was  to  have  married  my  niece 
to-night,  but  he  has  not  come,  and  we  don't 
know  where  he  is. " 

Jim  Evans  not  married,  and  missing!  The 
Colonel  felt,  in  a  blind  kind  of  way,  a  greater 
need  of  gaining  credence,  though  his  faculties 
were  too  confused  to  grasp  the  situation  thor- 
oughly, and  losing  all  caution  and  presence  of 
mind  he  began  to  rave. 

"The  snake !  The  snake !  At  the  Chronicle 
office — help — help — ' ' 

At  the  word  "snake,"  old  Jeff  motioned  to 
the  men  to  take  the  Colonel  away.  All  believed 
him  crazy  from  drink — all  but  Tom  Wilson, 
across  whose  mind  flashed  a  sickening  thought. 
In  half  a  minute  he  had  dashed  it  into  words, 
and  all  the  men  present,  with  Tom  at  their 
head,  were  flying  to  the  Chronicle  office. 

It  was  the  wildest,  maddest  race  that  Oak- 
ville  had  ever  seen.  No  one  spoke,  for  no 
one  could  spare  the  breath.  Down  one  street 
and  across  another,  through  the  snow  and 
darkness  and  cutting  wind,  bareheaded,  pell- 
mell,  they  flew,  with  Tom,  ever  gaining,  in 
front.  If  anything  had  happened  to  Jim 
through  his  agency,  the  boy  felt  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  live.    Dear  old  Jim!    And  as  he 


280  &laf)ama  j&tutcfieg 


ran,  Tom  wished,  in  his  anguish,  that  he  had 
never  been  born. 

The  next  moment  he  was  at  the  office,  and 
with  the  throng  at  his  heels,  he  burst  in. 

The  room  was  empty. 

With  knives  and  pistols  and  canes  and  other 
chance  weapons,  a  search  was  instituted. 
Tom  showed  the  box  with  the  broken  slats  in 
which  he  had  caged  the  anaconda.  But  a 
thorough  quest  in  the  office  and  cellar  failed 
to  discover  any  trace  of  the  anaconda  or  of 
Jim.  The  Colonel  had  been  left  behind  in  a 
state  of  exhaustion,  so  they  were  devoid  of 
any  information  in  regard  to  the  broken  win- 
dow, and  could  only  surmise  if  the  old  man, 
Jim,  the  reptile,  or  all  three  had  made  their 
escape  through  the  opening.  Inspection 
beneath  found  blood  stains  in  the  snow, 
which,  with  the  broken  glass  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  Colonel's  appearance,  sufficed  to 
clear  him  of  Miss  Betsy  Mayberry's  accusa- 
tion, if  her  words  had  aroused  suspicion  in  the 
mind  of  any  one. 

Nothing  further  being  discovered  in  the 
rear  of  the  house,  a  search  was  begun,  to  radi- 
ate from  the  Chronicle  office  and  embrace  the 
town,  through  which  the  discovery  of  the 
anaconda   by  Tom  Wilson   and  the  disap- 


fflSJijat  tSecame  of  JSIarg  ISlUn  281 


pearance  of  Jim  Evans  had  spread  like  wild- 
fire. 

Hardly  a  minute  later  a  cry  was  raised  that 
a  hat  had  been  discovered  within  fifty  yards 
of  the  Chronicle  door,  and  all  rushed  to  the 
spot  to  ascertain  if  it  was  the  hat  of  Colonel 
Badham  or  of  the  missing  bridegroom.  The 
hat  was  crushed  in  and  had  evidently  suffered 
rough  treatment,  but  Tom  Wilson,  with  a  fear- 
ful heart,  identified  it  as  the  property  of  Jim 
Evans. 

But  the  uncertainty  was  nearly  ended,  for 
before  he  had  gone  another  block  Tom's 
young  and  anxious  eyes  spied  something  dark 
beneath  a  large  water-oak,  and  the  boy  sprang 
forward  with  a  cry  and  bent  over  Jim,  lying 
on  his  face  in  the  snow,  unconscious.  A 
large,  half-decayed  limb  of  the  oak  lying  near 
solved  the  mystery;  dislodged  by  the  fierce 
wind,  it  had  fallen  upon  his  head. 

The  throng  waited  breathless  while  Doctor 
Seyton  examined  Evans,  and  a  great  cheer 
went  up  when  the  good  doctor  pronounced 
Jim  alive  and  his  injury  but  a  slight  concus- 
sion of  the  brain. 

4  4  But  there  will  be  no  wedding  to-night/ 1 
added  the  doctor. 

So  it  came  about  that  a  month  later,  on  the 


282  aiafiama  Sfeetcf)** 


14th  of  March,  when  all  the  land  was  ablow, 
there  was  a  daffodil  wedding  after  all,  which 
Colonel  Badham  attended,  in  his  right  mind 
and  clothed  in  a  wedding  garment,  to  greet 
the  daffodil  bride. 

And  Tom  scooped  the  Argus  and  got  five 
hundred  dollars  reward,  for  the  morning  after 
Jim's  accident  he  found  the  anaconda  under  a 
heap  of  snow-covered  jimson-weed  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  Chronicle  yard,  half  frozen.  Hind- 
foot  paid  promptly  on  delivery  of  the  snake  at 
New  Orleans,  and  for  weeks  afterwards  Tom 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  escape  and 
recapture  of  Mary  Ellen  republished  in  all  the 
exchanges. 


FAR  FROM  THE  FRONT 


FAR  FROM  THE  FRONT 


ANNE  LATHAM  had  not  heard  from  her 
husband,  Benjamin  Latham,  in  three 
months.  In  time  of  war  women  grow  accus- 
tomed to  long  epistolary  silences,  but  never 
before  had  Anne  been  so  long  without  tidings. 
She  was  a  hopeful  woman,  and  had  schooled 
herself  to  look  on  the  bright  side ;  nor  had  she 
been  unrewarded,  for  Latham  had  served  in 
Lee's  army  four  long  years  unharmed  by  dis- 
ease or  bullet.  During  the  past  year,  how- 
ever, anxiety  for  the  absent  soldiers  was  not 
the  only  trial  that  came  to  rack  the  hearts  of 
the  women  of  the  Confederacy.  The  wolf, 
hunger,  long  kept  at  bay  by  good  crop  years, 
scratched  at  the  door. 

It  was  not  so  hard  to  want  themselves,  but 
it  was  sickening  to  see  their  children  lack. 
And  it  came  to  pass  that  many  of  the  wives  of 
the  poor  non-slave-owning  whites  who  dwelt 
in  the  hills  sometimes  asked  themselves  if 
they  were  not  paying  too  dearly  for  the  possi- 
bility of  some  day  owning  a  negro,  and  other 
benefits  promised  by  secession. 

285 


286  aiatmma  Sfeetcfje* 


Anne  Latham,  in  the  hills  of  West  Alabama, 
had  managed  fairly  well  for  three  years.  She 
had  a  horse  with  which  to  do  ploughing,  and 
she  had  raised  corn,  peas,  and  potatoes,  which, 
with  the  milk  of  her  cow,  fed  her  little  family 
of  three;  and  with  her  spinning-wheel  and 
loom  she  spun  and  wove  clothing  for  herself 
and  children. 

For  three  years  she  had  kept  a  brave  heart, 
and  it  was  not  till  the  Confederate  government 
pressed  her  horse  into  service  that  she  began 
to  despond. 

The  children  wept  when  they  beheld  old 
Susie  disappear  down  the  piny  hill  road,  but 
something  besides  grief  for  the  loss  of  the 
faithful  old  mare  set  Anne's  heart  aching.  If 
the  war  should  last  another  year,  how  was  she, 
without  Susie,  to  cultivate  the  field  and  make 
bread  for  her  children? 

She  wrote  the  loss  to  Ben,  but  added  that 
she  had  enough  to  last  her  through  the  com- 
ing winter,  and  bade  him  not  to  fret.  That 
was  in  the  autumn.  Spring  came  and  found 
her  with  little  to  subsist  upon  but  the  milk  of 
her  cow,  and  the  cow  was  going  dry. 

It  was  on  a  stormy  night  in  April  that 
Anne's  future  seemed  to  her  well-nigh  as  dark 
as  the  skies.    Everything  that  she  knew  was 


dFar  from  ti)e  dfront  287 


discouraging,  and  the  unknown  might  be  even 
worse.  For  if  he  was  not  dead,  why  had  her 
husband  not  written? 

It  was  full  night  when  Anne  came  from 
milking  Susie,  the  cow,  and  built  the  fire  to 
bake  a  pone  of  corn-bread  for  the  children. 

When  all  was  ready — the  little  all — she 
divided  the  small  pitcher  of  milk  between  the 
children,  and  broke  the  pone  of  bread  into 
three  pieces,  taking  the  smallest  herself. 

"Mammie,  where's  your  cup?"  asked  the 
six-year-old  Ben. 

"I  don't  care  for  milk  nowadays,  sonnie," 
replied  Anne. 

"You  used  to  drink  it,  mammie." 

"Yes;  when  we  had  a  lot  o'  milk,  somebody 
had  to  drink  it  to  keep  it  from  spoiling.  But 
come,  eat  your  supper,"  said  the  mother, 
willing  to  change  the  subject,  and  forcing  a 
smile  to  her  thin,  hunger-stricken  face;  "it's 
time  little  folks  went  to  bed." 

"I  want  some  more  milk,  mammie,"  said 
four-year-old  Lucy,  beating  her  empty  tin  cup 
on  the  table. 

"There  isn't  any  more.  Take  some  of  my 
bread. " 

"No,  mammie,"  said  the  boy,  "give  her 
my  cup.    I've  had  enough." 


288  aiafiama  Sfcetcf)** 


A  lump  came  in  the  little  fellow's  throat, 
for  he  knew  more  of  his  mother's  trouble  than 
she  supposed,  and  throwing  his  arm  about  her 
neck,  he  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"Mammie,  when  is  pap  coming  home  from 
the  war?" 

Anne  replied  to  the  child's  query  with  forced 
cheerfulness,  and  when  the  children  were 
tucked  away  in  bed,  placing  a  lightwood  knot 
upon  the  fading  fire,  she  brought  out  her  knit- 
ting. The  wind  sobbed  down  the  chimney, 
and  the  rain  rattled  upon  the  cabin  roof,  for 
the  storm  was  growing  fiercer.  Everything 
was  gloomy  but  the  blazing  knot,  and  the  old 
gray  cat  which  sat  purring  by  the  fire.  Thank 
God,  the  Government  did  not  press  cats — cats 
and  women  were  left  at  home  to  catch  mice, 
and  bake,  and  plough. 

The  fire  sent  lights  and  shadows  dancing 
about  the  room,  now  leaping  across  the  raf- 
ters, now  lingering  on  the  bed  where  the  chil- 
dren lay  peacefully  sleeping.  Anne  stopped 
knitting  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her  thin, 
worn  hand.  She  was  hungry,  but  her  heart 
was  hungriest  of  all.  What  was  beyond  the 
storm  and  darkness,  far  away?  Where  was 
her  husband  to-night?  If  she  could  only 
know  he  was  alive  and  well  she  could  battle 


Jpax  from  tfje  jfxont  289 


with  want  a  while  longer.  Perhaps  with  the 
coming  grass  the  cow  would  still  give  milk 
enough  for  the  children.  She  herself  would 
continue  to  exist  some  way.  She  could  boil 
herbs,  or  catch  fish  in  the  creek.  She  thought 
if  she  could  only  get  a  letter  from  Ben  she 
could  live  through  anything. 

The  cat  stopped  purring,  and  Anne,  with 
her  tired  head  upon  her  hand,  began  to  nod 
from  very  weariness.  In  a  semiconscious 
state  she  crooned  softly  a  lullaby  that  she 
sung  her  children  to  sleep  with.  Then  she 
fell  asleep.  Hungry  people  are  prone  to 
dream,  and  Anne  dreamed  of  far-off  Virginia. 
She  was  with  her  husband,  and  yet  she  was 
most  unhappy,  for  she  had  left  her  children 
behind,  and  she  could  hear  them,  far  away, 
crying  with  hunger  and  calling  for  her. 

Suddenly  she  woke  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 
What  was  that?  A  step  on  the  cabin  porch. 
Whose  could  it  be  at  this  hour?  Whoever  it 
was  did  not  knock.  Instead,  the  door  was 
suddenly  opened.    She  shrank  back. 

4 4 Ben!  Ben!"  she  sobbed,  and  a  tattered, 
travel-stained,  dripping  figure  in  Confederate 
gray  clasped  her  tightly  in  his  arms. 

The  next  moment  she  drew  her  husband  to 
the  fire,  and  as  she  heaped  on  the  wood  her 


290  aiafianta  Stutcfjes 


trembling  and  tearful  laughter  was  pitiful  to 
witness.    She  could  not  control  herself. 

4 4 Oh,  Anne,"  cried  Latham,  "how  thin  and 
starved  you  look!"  Then  he  walked  to  the 
bed  where  the  children  lay. 

Leaving  the  fire  she  stood  beside  him. 

"Don't  wake  them,"  he  said;  and  bending 
down  he  kissed  them. 

"I  hadn't  heard  from  you  in  three  months, 
Ben,  and  I  feared  you  were  dead,"  said  Anne; 
"and  now  you  are  here — oh,  Ben,  I  am  so 
happy!" 

"I  was  sick  in  the  hospital,"  said  the  man, 
with  his  arm  around  her  waist;  "and  when  I 
got  back  to  camp,  John  Holmes  had  a  letter 
from  his  wife  in  which  she  said  you  and  the 
children  were  nigh  starvation,  and  when  I 
heard  that  word  I  started  for  home." 

Latham  gazed  at  his  wife  tenderly. 

"And  you — oh,  Anne! — you  are  starving!" 
he  exclaimed,  for  Anne's  thin  face  turned 
gray,  and  reeling,  she  would  have  fallen  had 
he  not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Thank  God,  there's  some  bacon  left  in  my 
knapsack,"  said  Latham,  placing  his  wife  in  a 
chair. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  frying-pan  was  sput- 
tering on  the  fire,  and  the  frying  bacon  filled 


dFar  from  tfje  jfxont  291 


the  cabin  with  its  savory  scent,  and  a  hurriedly 
made  hoe-cake  lay  baking  before  the  hot  coals. 

"Oh,  Ben,  how  long  is  your  furlough?,, 
asked  Anne,  suddenly,  as  she  sat  by  her  hus- 
band's side  with  the  color  coming  slowly  back 
to  her  hollow  cheeks.  Hunger  and  sorrow 
forgotten  in  the  joy  of  Latham's  return,  the 
only  mote  that  could  mar  her  happiness  was 
the  thought  of  a  future  parting. 

"Never  mind  about  the  furlough,' '  replied 
Ben,  moving  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "We 
won't  talk  about  it  to-night.  After  a  man's 
been  fighting  four  years  he  has  a  right  to  kiss 
his  wife  and  children  without  thinking  about 
the  war." 

"How  long  is  it  going  to  last,  Ben?" 

Latham  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  walk- 
ing the  cabin  floor. 

"God  knows!  But  it  can't  last  much  longer 
unless  men  learn  to  live  without  food  and 
clothes.  It's  got  mighty  high  to  that  pass 
now.  We  can't  hold  out  a  year.  It's  two  to 
one,  and  we  ain't  had  any  luck  since  Stonewall 
Jackson  was  killed.  The  men  fight  as  well  as 
ever,  but  how  they  have  the  heart  to  keep  it 
up  is  a  wonder,  with  letters  coming  from  home 
telling  of  wives  and  children  in  woeful  want." 

Ben  Latham  stopped  and  looked  at  his  wife 


292  aiafmma  Sfeetcije^ 


with  a  reddish  light  shining  in  his  haggard 
eyes  that  almost  frightened  her. 

"The  men  are  fighting  for  their  country, 
Ben,"  said  the  wife,  encouragingly. 

"For  their  country!"  exclaimed  Latham. 
"What  is  country  to  a  man  when  wife  and 
children  are  starving?" 

The  scant  meal  was  now  ready  and  the  two 
sat  down  to  eat.  There  was  much  to  be  heard 
and  told.  In  answer  to  her  husband's  ques- 
tions, the  wife  gave  the  story  of  her  struggles 
and  makeshifts.  When  she  had  finished, 
Latham  inquired  how  much  food  there  was  in 
the  cabin,  and  Anne  replied  that  there  was 
enough  meal  for  two  days,  but  when  it  was 
gone  there  was  no  more  corn  in  the  barn  to  be 
ground,  and  the  potatoes  had  all  rotted  weeks 
ago. 

Then  the  man  said  the  country  was  full  of 
game.  During  the  four  years'  strife  between 
North  and  South  there  had  been  little  hunt- 
ing, with  the  result  that  the  wild  creatures, 
unharmed,  had  multiplied  almost  beyond 
belief.  So  that  Latham  told  Anne  he  was 
sure  he  could  trap  enough  game  to  keep  the 
family  till  garden  and  field  could  yield  their 
produce;  and  furthermore,  till  the  truck  grew 
he  could  also  weave  fish-traps  of  white-oak 


dfax  from  fyt  jfxtmt  293 


splints,  and  catch  fish  in  Sipsey  River.  Oh, 
he  could  manage,  said  the  husband. 

"But  won't  you  have  to  go  back  to  the  army 
before  the  crop's  made?"  said  Anne. 

The  little  supper  had  been  eaten  and  the 
woman  was  now  clearing  the  table. 

"Anne,"  said  Latham,  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience, "I've  just  come;  don't  let  us  talk  of 
my  leaving." 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke  of  it,  Ben;  but  I'm  so 
glad  to  have  you  back  again,  the  thought  of 
your  leaving  keeps  rising  before  me  like  a 
ghost,"  replied  the  wife,  with  tears  in  her  sad, 
weary  eyes. 

"Well,  let  ghosts  alone  to-night.  I've  seen 
enough  dead  men,"  said  Latham,  with  a  mirth- 
less laugh  that  sounded  dry  and  forced. 

Husband  and  wife  continued  to  talk,  but 
something  as  intangible  as  a  shadow  marred 
all  efforts  at  cheerfulness.  At  last  Anne, 
after  a  silence,  exclaimed:  "How  glad  all  the 
neighbors  will  be  to  see  you,  Ben.  They'll 
have  a  thousand  questions  to  ask.  There 
hasn't  been  anybody  home  from  the  army  in 
six  months." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  of  the  neighbors," 
said  Latham,  almost  shortly. 

"Oh,  Ben!" 


294  aiatmma  &kttt$t8 


Anne  looked  at  her  husband  in  grieved  sur- 
prise, and  the  tattered  soldier  continued,  as  if 
by  way  of  necessary  explanation:  "I  haven't 
time,  Anne,  for  going  about  saying  howd'ye 
and  shaking  hands.  That's  for  people  with 
fat  barns  and  smokehouses.  I  must  forage 
for  you  and  the  children.  I  shall  be  away 
most  of  the  daytime  hunting  and  fishing." 

Anne  was  troubled.  Something  was  wrong, 
and  she  could  not  fathom  it.  A  vague  appre- 
hension of  some  unseen  evil  haunted  her.  She 
longed  to  question  her  husband  in  order  to 
relieve  her  mind  of  anxiety,  but  she  knew  not 
how  to  form  her  questions,  even  had  she  not 
feared  to  ask  them.  Ben  was  keeping  some- 
thing from  her,  she  was  sure. 

The  latter  viewed  his  wife's  sorrowful  face, 
and  his  conscience  smote  him.  He  kissed  her 
several  times. 

"There,  Anne;  come,  cheer  up.  Neighbors 
be  hanged!  I  don't  want  to  think  of  anybody 
but  you  and  the  children  to-night." 

Anne  forced  a  smile,  and  Latham  lit  his 
pipe,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  soothe  him.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  was  again  walking  the  floor. 
Meantime  the  storm  raged  outside. 

"Anne,  do  you  have  visitors  often?  Is 
there  much  passing  on  the  road?" 


jfar  from  tf)e  jFnmt  295 


The  wife  replied  that  few  people  came  to 
the  house,  and  there  were  few  wayfarers. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Latham,  in  a  tone 
of  relief,  resuming  his  seat  by  the  fire. 

This  remark,  so  unlike  the  Ben  Latham  of 
old,  was  too  much  for  Anne.  Bursting  into 
tears,  she  threw  her  arms  about  her  husband's 
neck. 

"Oh,  Ben!  Ben!  what  is  it?  I'm  so  fright- 
ened. You  are  not  as  you  used  to  be.  Some- 
thing dreadful  has  happened  or  is  going  to 
happen.    Tell  me — tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"Nothing  is  going  to  happen,  Anne.  What 
nonsense !  You've  been  so  much  alone  you've 
grown  notiony.  What'll  happen  is  that  you'll 
be  seeing  spirits  and  ghosts  if  you  don't  rid 
your  brain  of  such  fancies,"  said  the  man, 
kissing  his  wife  and  laughing. 

But  the  laugh  was  nervous  and  hollow,  and 
the  next  moment  he  started  to  his  feet. 

"What's  that,  Anne?  Don't  you  hear  some- 
thing?" 

"Nothing  but  the  storm,"  said  the  wo- 
man. 

"Yes;  there's  some  one  at  the  gate — it's 
a  man's  tread — he's  coming  to  the  door. 
Great  God!"  exclaimed  Latham,  excitedly. 

Startled   by  her  husband's  wild   look,  a 


296  aiafcama  &kttti)t8 


dreadful  thought  came  to  Anne.  Had  hard- 
ship and  hunger  turned  his  brain? 

"Ben!  Ben!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands, 
"nobody  is  coming  to  harm  us." 

"Anne,  I  mustn't  be  seen,"  said  Latham, 
greatly  agitated. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Anne,  wife,"  said  the  man,  grasping  the 
woman's  arm,  "I'm  a  deserter.  When  I 
heard  John  Holmes's  wife's  letter,  I  deserted. 
I  ran  off  in  the  night.  I  couldn't  stay  when 
I  knew  you  and  the  children  were  starv- 
ing." 

The  knock  came  again. 

"It  I'm  seen,  I  shall  be  disgraced,  and  the 
punishment  for  desertion  is  death,"  whispered 
Latham,  hoarsely. 

Anne  Latham  looked  at  her  husband.  If  he 
had  deserted,  it  was  not  by  reason  of  coward- 
ice, nor  to  go  over  to  the  enemy,  but  for  love 
of  her  and  his  children.  Patriotism  is  born 
at  the  hearthstone,  and  man  fights  and  dies 
for  it.  What  is  country  but  an  assemblage  of 
homes?  There  was  an  enemy  far  from  the 
front  attacking  Ben  Latham's  home — an 
enemy  that  only  he  could  battle  with,  and  he 
had  come  home  tattered  and  war-worn  to  fight 
hand-to-hand  with  hunger  for  those  he  loved. 


dFar  from  X%t  dFront  297 


These  or  similar  thoughts  came  to  Anne 
Latham,  and  with  them  a  flood  of  affection  for 
her  husband. 

"Hush,  Ben,"  she  said,  "and  open  the  door. 
Most  likely  it  is  some  traveller  who  has  lost  his 
way,  and  doesn't  know  you." 

The  knock  rang  again,  for  the  third  time, 
and  as  Ben  Latham  opened  the  cabin  door  a 
dripping  man  in  a  captain's  uniform  of  Con- 
federate gray  entered  the  room. 

Anne  Latham  recognized  the"  officer.  It 
was  Ben's  captain,  and  with  a  cry  of  alarm  she 
clutched  her  husband's  arm. 

"Great  Scott!  Latham,  is  it  you!  I  was 
lost  and  rode  for  the  first  light.  By  Jove, 
it's  a  stormy  night — as  bad  as  some  we  had 
in  Virginia.  In  heaven's  name,  man,  why  are 
you  staring  so?    What's  the  matter?" 

Ben  Latham  stood  indeed  like  a  man 
frozen,  and  gazed  at  his  Captain  dazed  and 
speechless. 

"Who  would  have  believed  you'd  have 
treated  your  Captain  so?  And  after  fighting 
under  him  for  four  years!  Man,  I'm  ashamed 
of  you.    Don't  forget  you're  a  soldier." 

Still  Ben  Latham  was  silent,  and  the  Cap- 
tain looked  at  him  astonished. 

"This  is  your  wife,  I  presume,  and  these  are 


298  aiafiama  S&etcijea 


your  children.' '  The  officer  went  to  the  bed 
and  surveyed  the  little  sleepers. 

As  he  did  so  Latham  fell  into  a  chair  and 
began  to  sob  as  he  had  not  done  since  he  was 
a  child.  His  wife  stood  over  him  filled  with 
bewildered  distress.  She  turned  to  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"Captain,"  she  said,  "you  have  a  furlough, 
and  you  are  going  home  to  your  family.  Be 
merciful  to  a  man  who  couldn't  get  a  furlough 
and  hadn't  seen  his  wife  and  children  in  three 
years." 

"Why,  I  never  knew  that!  If  I  had  known 
the  fact  he  should  have  had  leave  long  ago." 
The  Captain  looked  at  Anne  thoroughly  mysti- 
fied. "But  I  can't  understand  your  husband's 
strange  conduct  toward  me." 

"Captain,"  continued  Anne,  "my  husband 
may  have  done  wrong,  but  he  couldn't  help  it. 
He  heard  that  his  wife  and  children  were 
about  to  starve,  and  he  hurried  home." 

"I've  hurried,  too.  It  is  not  more  than 
ten  days  since  Lee's  surrender." 

"What,  sir?"  asked  the  wife,  eagerly. 
"Lee's  surrendered?" 

"Yes;  and  the  war's  over.  Hasn't  your 
husband  told  you?"  asked  the  Captain. 


dfar  from  i^t  dFront  299 


Ben  Latham's  sobs  ceased,  and  he  sat  like 
a  man  in  a  dream. 

"Mrs.  Latham,"  said  the  Captain,  kindly, 
"there  wasn't  a  braver  man  in  my  company 
than  your  husband,  but  he's  worn  out,  and  I 
fear  he's  going  into  a  fever.  That  only  can 
account  for  his  strange  behavior  to-night." 

But  Anne  was  not  listening.  She  was  kneel- 
ing by  her  husband. 

"Ben,  did  you  hear  the  Captain?  Lee's 
surrendered,  and  the  war's  over.  The  Cap- 
tain thinks  you  must  have  left  for  home  the 
same  day  he  did." 

The  Captain  had  gone  to  the  door  to  view 
the  weather.    The  storm  was  over. 

"Do  you  understand,  Ben?  You  were 
never  missed  from  the  company,  for  Lee  sur- 
rendered a  few  hours  after  you  left,  and — and 
nobody  knows  your  secret  but  me." 


THE  END 


